So I went back to school this semester and it was gross. Taking one class - one class! - and I was a disastrous, stressful mess. Had headaches for two months. Ridiculous.
Prior to this, and after visiting Dad in August, I decided to date again. So I joined one of the famous dating websites. This very website was a success for me when I lived in another large East Coast city years ago. However, I must say that I know there was a larger pool of gay men there. Or I think there was. Back then, I remember serial dating: meet a guy for lunch, scamper off to hang with friends, then go meet a fella for dinner. It was great. I was becoming a dating expert! At one point, I think I went on 13 dates in 2 weeks. Eventually, I actually met a boyfriend via that website.
So with five-year-old memories of success, I returned to that website.
Like most people, I do not like setting up the profile, but I try to be honest without being a complete asshole. In addition, I choose photographs that are fairly flattering, but that do not make me look unrealistically handsome so as to disappoint when one meets me in person, or that hot fucking picture of me when I was 24-years-old and 30 pounds lighter (someone I met actually had a years-old photo of himself before his stomach looked pregnant).
There seems to be a paradox existing here with me. As I get older, I filter my mouth less. Or maybe it's that I filter my personality less, because I certainly don't go into tales of snorting heroin at work during the first few conversations. Yet, my impish impulses imp out and I sometimes go on a stream of consciousness jag. For example, here is, verbatim, an e-mail I sent a guy after about three exchanges with him. I don't know what possessed me to send it:
mr. s_______,
i want to see more photos of you because i just do. i like photos. i like visuals. i like scents and fragrances too. freesia is my favorite flower because it is simultaneously sweet and peppery to me. the soap i use is dr. bronner's lavender. sometimes i think my arms smell like a field of fresh air at the end of a day.
my favorite feature on me is my right eyebrow.
since i hit 30, i started growing some hairs on my upper back. i don't like them and groom them every few months.
worked a lot this weekend - back in school taking classes for educational administration - received my master's in 1999 - never thought i'd return to school - and am tired a lot.
tell me about you, s______.
- anonymister
I never heard from the guy again.
Then there was the guy who told me, after one e-mail, that I seemed like a terrific guy. I am dubious about motherfuckers like that because I sense a neediness and a desire to please - something I have done too much in the past. So Mr. Liar-Pants-on-Fire told me that he had two cats that were black. Teasingly, I informed him that this was the mark of the devil. He argued that, no, his cats were angels from God.
Oh, brother.
So I asked him if the quality of life had changed for his cats since President Obama had been elected into office.
Never heard from him again either.
Then there was a guy who was from a town called "Beverly." I told him, because this is true, that the word "Beverly" reminds me of the word "vagina," as if a woman would say that she had a yeast infection in her beverly. He replied, "I suppose I should tell you that my mother's name is Beverly."
I responded that my mother's name is Cunt and that it was quite embarrassing for me while growing up.
He answered to that, "It's a nice Irish name."
That made me like him a little.
And eventually I went on a date with him. To his credit, he was a very kind man, and quite accepting of me and my lunacy. To his detriment, when I kissed him, he had slight halitosis. This made me long for the needy fellows with excellent hygiene who I had rejected earlier this year.
The lesson from all of this is that I don't think I want what I really think I want. I think I want to date or be with someone romantically, but the choices I make are ones that indicate the contrary. Truly, it takes a strong and special guy to handle me. Or maybe I'm just a snob and a dickhead. I don't care right now.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
People Change
I am furious at Google regarding these blog changes. I am no longer able to change the fonts on the page when I am composing a blog. And then I went and changed the template, thinking that it would fix everything and return to me the choice of various fonts. Wrong. Fucking oogly Googly.
Yesterday I returned from visiting my father on the West Coast. Prior to my stay, I was a fucking wreck for days. Actually, I had been worrying about it for weeks, but something set me off last week and I became an anxious mess, pacing the apartment smoking cigarettes, chest tightened, electric currents of fear coursing through my exceptionally desirable body. What can I say? I love my father, I always wanted a daddy, but he sucked. Alcoholism ravaged through his life and his family's. Add to the equation his cunt of a wife - fundamentalist Christian know-it-all (see Dunning-Kruger effect - dumb people know everything) - and life was a nightmare for me when I spent time with dear old Dad growing up. When I was forced to go there on the weekends, he was usually out drinking, and the edgiest and most fun thing to do was watch "The Donny and Marie Show." When we were together, we generally went to bars while I waited and waited and waited during which he became drunker and drunker and drunker. Usually I was hungry and angry. At least I became good at bar shuffleboard.
So last week I felt like I was being carted off to prison once again and my dear old Dad was the cheery warden calling and saying, "Looking forward to seeing you!" I felt trapped and the shitty thing was that I was choosing to be trapped in making this trip.
Now the question arises: Why the fuck would one subject himself to such a thing? Why not continue living life on the East Coast without a break in routine? Why be around West Coasteners and their stupid laid back grossness? What the fuck are those cunts smiling about?
Several answers arise: Dad almost died of cancer a few years back; how many opportunities will I really have to see him? He has stopped drinking since the felony charges were brought against him for pulling a gun on the repo man (the whole family carries guns; Dad has an NRA cap; "Vote John McCain" stickers are on the back of their vehicles; they believe in Satan). And maybe I can work out some issues I have with men, both gay and straight.
The story of my father and me is long and complicated and more interesting to me than anyone. Not appropriate for a blog. I also know that I'm not alone in having a difficult history with a parent.
It is with great pleasure to announce that the trip was a success. (<--- taking a bow, waving to the audience, blowing kisses to a few people)
My father is ridiculously funny.
He put a dollar on a picnic table in the backyard to encourage my 5-year-old niece and 7-year-old nephew to kiss a fat slug.
I have a 15-year-old sister (the difference in age between her and me is larger than the difference between my father and me) who is a carbon copy of stepmother (too bad!). It is amazing to me that a 15-year-old can look matronly in 2010. She vacillates between bossy and bratty. About to ride in the car one day, she was stewing in the back seat; he inquired, "Aren't you going to hold the door open for your brother?" When I asked her one night if she wanted to use the bathroom before me, my father said, "Oh, you're brother and sister - you can shower together!" I love the fact that he says these things to a girl whose ambition is to be a Christian missionary. One day I used the word "motherfucker" in the kitchen. He cut me off and said, "Watch it! Your sister might hear you using those words!" After a pause, he continued, "I don't want the cunt hearing that kind of language."
We took his dog to a park where the canines could frolic and smell each others' assholes freely. Dad grabbed a turd bag for show with no intention of cleaning the dog's shit. "Man, I hope the dog shits down the hill." He stopped to say to an especially hairy, kinky and frizzy dog, "Oh, d'ya just take the curlers out of your hair?"
Driving in the car, passing by women, he would say, "God, I get so tired of these ladies just looking at me like I'm a piece of meat. Just beef, that's all I am to them. No way am I fucking any of them, especially because I can tell she hasn't douched in six months."
This was constant. He was King of the one-liners.
I like my father much better since he has stopped drinking.
The trip was a success because of several reasons. Most importantly, I had fun. Fun. And something I realized inside of my heart is that my father - as fucked up as he has been all these years, and though he neglected the shit out of me and the other siblings - loves me. I am loved.
So the issues I have with men etc.: they are mine to work through. My father has had a difficult and hard life and is simply a funny and intelligent man trying not to regret his past. My shit is mine.
Yesterday I returned from visiting my father on the West Coast. Prior to my stay, I was a fucking wreck for days. Actually, I had been worrying about it for weeks, but something set me off last week and I became an anxious mess, pacing the apartment smoking cigarettes, chest tightened, electric currents of fear coursing through my exceptionally desirable body. What can I say? I love my father, I always wanted a daddy, but he sucked. Alcoholism ravaged through his life and his family's. Add to the equation his cunt of a wife - fundamentalist Christian know-it-all (see Dunning-Kruger effect - dumb people know everything) - and life was a nightmare for me when I spent time with dear old Dad growing up. When I was forced to go there on the weekends, he was usually out drinking, and the edgiest and most fun thing to do was watch "The Donny and Marie Show." When we were together, we generally went to bars while I waited and waited and waited during which he became drunker and drunker and drunker. Usually I was hungry and angry. At least I became good at bar shuffleboard.
So last week I felt like I was being carted off to prison once again and my dear old Dad was the cheery warden calling and saying, "Looking forward to seeing you!" I felt trapped and the shitty thing was that I was choosing to be trapped in making this trip.
Now the question arises: Why the fuck would one subject himself to such a thing? Why not continue living life on the East Coast without a break in routine? Why be around West Coasteners and their stupid laid back grossness? What the fuck are those cunts smiling about?
Several answers arise: Dad almost died of cancer a few years back; how many opportunities will I really have to see him? He has stopped drinking since the felony charges were brought against him for pulling a gun on the repo man (the whole family carries guns; Dad has an NRA cap; "Vote John McCain" stickers are on the back of their vehicles; they believe in Satan). And maybe I can work out some issues I have with men, both gay and straight.
The story of my father and me is long and complicated and more interesting to me than anyone. Not appropriate for a blog. I also know that I'm not alone in having a difficult history with a parent.
It is with great pleasure to announce that the trip was a success. (<--- taking a bow, waving to the audience, blowing kisses to a few people)
My father is ridiculously funny.
He put a dollar on a picnic table in the backyard to encourage my 5-year-old niece and 7-year-old nephew to kiss a fat slug.
I have a 15-year-old sister (the difference in age between her and me is larger than the difference between my father and me) who is a carbon copy of stepmother (too bad!). It is amazing to me that a 15-year-old can look matronly in 2010. She vacillates between bossy and bratty. About to ride in the car one day, she was stewing in the back seat; he inquired, "Aren't you going to hold the door open for your brother?" When I asked her one night if she wanted to use the bathroom before me, my father said, "Oh, you're brother and sister - you can shower together!" I love the fact that he says these things to a girl whose ambition is to be a Christian missionary. One day I used the word "motherfucker" in the kitchen. He cut me off and said, "Watch it! Your sister might hear you using those words!" After a pause, he continued, "I don't want the cunt hearing that kind of language."
We took his dog to a park where the canines could frolic and smell each others' assholes freely. Dad grabbed a turd bag for show with no intention of cleaning the dog's shit. "Man, I hope the dog shits down the hill." He stopped to say to an especially hairy, kinky and frizzy dog, "Oh, d'ya just take the curlers out of your hair?"
Driving in the car, passing by women, he would say, "God, I get so tired of these ladies just looking at me like I'm a piece of meat. Just beef, that's all I am to them. No way am I fucking any of them, especially because I can tell she hasn't douched in six months."
This was constant. He was King of the one-liners.
I like my father much better since he has stopped drinking.
The trip was a success because of several reasons. Most importantly, I had fun. Fun. And something I realized inside of my heart is that my father - as fucked up as he has been all these years, and though he neglected the shit out of me and the other siblings - loves me. I am loved.
So the issues I have with men etc.: they are mine to work through. My father has had a difficult and hard life and is simply a funny and intelligent man trying not to regret his past. My shit is mine.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
TOP 10 LISTS
Hmm. Stupid Google has changed the format on these blogs and I can't adjust my font. They must want, insist, that I "upgrade" to what they deem cool and necessary.
Who's in charge here?!
So I like lists. Top 10 lists. There is something satisfying and clean and neat about those lists. Obviously I am not the only one since people and organizations create lists of favorites and non-favorites all the time.
I remember watching Casey Kasem's ("SCOOB!") America's Top 10 on Sunday nights during the early 1980s. There was something reassuring about his voice announcing who was maintaining their place on Billboard's Top 10, in addition to something maddeningly frustrating when my favorite artists didn't attain the chart position that I thought they deserved (How dare Juice Newton's "Queen of Hearts" stall at #2?!). And what a treat when we got to see the full music video for the song!
Since then - about 30 years now - I have classified and ranked various songs, books, and movies in my mind into Anonymister's personal Top 10. Never has it been shared with anyone, including myself. This is because I never complete the list. I just think, "That's definitely in my Top 10."
I know these songs have to be in my Top 10 because of how much I love them now or the sheer number of times I have listened to them in my life. However, they are not ranked in preferential order, other than "Breeze.":
- Breeze, by Lush
- Take That Holiday, by Stacey Q
- Happy, by N*E*R*D
- Tar Baby, by Sade
- Hold On, by Dwele
- Suckling the Mender, by Cocteau Twins
- It Makes Me Wonder, by Suzanne Vega
- Incomplete Without You, by Swing Out Sister
- Prototype, by Outkast
- Eyes Without a Face, by Billy Idol
These may change in an hour.
It is also important to note that there are artists who I love much more than others on this list but whose individual songs simply did not make the cut. Madonna. Fleetwood Mac. Massive Attack. They have a catalog of songs that made my skin tingle and my heart sing, but not a song that I have listened to 400,000 times.
Now I was talking to a friend of mine earlier this week and he said that the day prior, the garbage men had collected the trash on his block. He also mentioned that after they left, it seemed that all of them had taken a shit in front of his and his neighbors' houses. The smell that lingered after the collection was simply heinous; perhaps that had wrung out garbage broth from the trash bags.
It aroused olfactory memories of the WORST smell I had ever smelled, which was a large East Coast City's garbage truck in the summer. In a car with other people, we were stuck behind it at a red light. This fucking truck smelled worst than shit. It smelled worst than the lady's breath I smelled in the department store on December 26th when I was hungover at 14-years-old after having drunk egg nog at my family's Christmas get-together (and my mother thought she was so generous that year, but I just wanted Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men cologne). It smelled worse than the hot decomposing carcasses that I saw in the city morgue during my summer job at 16-years-old. This fucking garbage truck was like the underworld, but worse. There were four of us in the car, and the three passengers screamed at the driver to turn left! turn left! When the traffic light changed and we were able to turn, we all breathed, and silence settled on the car as we realized that we had all survived a near catastrophe.
So my friend's experience got me thinking about other Top 10 lists that I never see - why aren't there lists entitled TOP 10 WORSE SMELLS? Or TOP 10 BEST ORGASMS? (I certainly can remember a few...) Or TOP 10 TIMES I WAS SO HIGH AND DROVE THAT IT WAS A MIRACLE I DIDN'T KILL OTHER PEOPLE, MYSELF, OR DRIVE OFF A BRIDGE (like that first time I snorted Oxycontin and then smoked some hybrid of pot called "Purple Koosh" or "God" and my eyes were crossed and I literally - literally - saw three of everything for 2 hours). How about TOP TEN PEOPLE WHOSE TEETH I'D LIKE TO PUNCH DOWN THEIR THROATS (David Spade. Sarah Palin. Several ex-bosses.) Maybe TOP LONGEST TURDS EVER THAT ASTOUNDINGLY CURLED AROUND THE TOILET BOWL AND DID NOT BREAK INTO PIECES. Or TOP 10 MOST EMBARRASSING THINGS EVER (I read something about someone fucking the hole in their picnic table and getting arrested - that's pretty embarrassing).
Man, there is a farrago of lists that I am missing, I am sure.
Who's in charge here?!
So I like lists. Top 10 lists. There is something satisfying and clean and neat about those lists. Obviously I am not the only one since people and organizations create lists of favorites and non-favorites all the time.
I remember watching Casey Kasem's ("SCOOB!") America's Top 10 on Sunday nights during the early 1980s. There was something reassuring about his voice announcing who was maintaining their place on Billboard's Top 10, in addition to something maddeningly frustrating when my favorite artists didn't attain the chart position that I thought they deserved (How dare Juice Newton's "Queen of Hearts" stall at #2?!). And what a treat when we got to see the full music video for the song!
Since then - about 30 years now - I have classified and ranked various songs, books, and movies in my mind into Anonymister's personal Top 10. Never has it been shared with anyone, including myself. This is because I never complete the list. I just think, "That's definitely in my Top 10."
I know these songs have to be in my Top 10 because of how much I love them now or the sheer number of times I have listened to them in my life. However, they are not ranked in preferential order, other than "Breeze.":
- Breeze, by Lush
- Take That Holiday, by Stacey Q
- Happy, by N*E*R*D
- Tar Baby, by Sade
- Hold On, by Dwele
- Suckling the Mender, by Cocteau Twins
- It Makes Me Wonder, by Suzanne Vega
- Incomplete Without You, by Swing Out Sister
- Prototype, by Outkast
- Eyes Without a Face, by Billy Idol
These may change in an hour.
It is also important to note that there are artists who I love much more than others on this list but whose individual songs simply did not make the cut. Madonna. Fleetwood Mac. Massive Attack. They have a catalog of songs that made my skin tingle and my heart sing, but not a song that I have listened to 400,000 times.
Now I was talking to a friend of mine earlier this week and he said that the day prior, the garbage men had collected the trash on his block. He also mentioned that after they left, it seemed that all of them had taken a shit in front of his and his neighbors' houses. The smell that lingered after the collection was simply heinous; perhaps that had wrung out garbage broth from the trash bags.
It aroused olfactory memories of the WORST smell I had ever smelled, which was a large East Coast City's garbage truck in the summer. In a car with other people, we were stuck behind it at a red light. This fucking truck smelled worst than shit. It smelled worst than the lady's breath I smelled in the department store on December 26th when I was hungover at 14-years-old after having drunk egg nog at my family's Christmas get-together (and my mother thought she was so generous that year, but I just wanted Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men cologne). It smelled worse than the hot decomposing carcasses that I saw in the city morgue during my summer job at 16-years-old. This fucking garbage truck was like the underworld, but worse. There were four of us in the car, and the three passengers screamed at the driver to turn left! turn left! When the traffic light changed and we were able to turn, we all breathed, and silence settled on the car as we realized that we had all survived a near catastrophe.
So my friend's experience got me thinking about other Top 10 lists that I never see - why aren't there lists entitled TOP 10 WORSE SMELLS? Or TOP 10 BEST ORGASMS? (I certainly can remember a few...) Or TOP 10 TIMES I WAS SO HIGH AND DROVE THAT IT WAS A MIRACLE I DIDN'T KILL OTHER PEOPLE, MYSELF, OR DRIVE OFF A BRIDGE (like that first time I snorted Oxycontin and then smoked some hybrid of pot called "Purple Koosh" or "God" and my eyes were crossed and I literally - literally - saw three of everything for 2 hours). How about TOP TEN PEOPLE WHOSE TEETH I'D LIKE TO PUNCH DOWN THEIR THROATS (David Spade. Sarah Palin. Several ex-bosses.) Maybe TOP LONGEST TURDS EVER THAT ASTOUNDINGLY CURLED AROUND THE TOILET BOWL AND DID NOT BREAK INTO PIECES. Or TOP 10 MOST EMBARRASSING THINGS EVER (I read something about someone fucking the hole in their picnic table and getting arrested - that's pretty embarrassing).
Man, there is a farrago of lists that I am missing, I am sure.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Hey Mickey!
God, I hate these dumb ass motherfuckers in cyberspace. Are they for real or are they fucking with me too?
Last night, after a week's bout with anxiety (okay, it's been more like 30-something years), I'm looking at videos on YouTube. After watching the 5th season opener for THE FACTS OF LIFE, I posted something like this:
My favorite episode that season was when Blair fingered Tootie's ass.
Something short and sweet.
Then I'm led on a leash somehow into watching about fifty more videos. One of them was "Mickey," the hit song by Toni Basil from 1982. Total bubblegum fun. The video is energetic as the singer dances, bounces, kicks, splits, builds pyramids with cheerleaders and all kind of wheeeeeeeeeee!
So I posted something like, "She was 70-years-old when she made this video. She was in great shape!"
I actually received a response to that comment in my e-mail. Verbatim, it says:
actually about 39 - she was born in 1943
Jesus Christ. I cannot stand when people take pop culture so seriously!
Last night, after a week's bout with anxiety (okay, it's been more like 30-something years), I'm looking at videos on YouTube. After watching the 5th season opener for THE FACTS OF LIFE, I posted something like this:
My favorite episode that season was when Blair fingered Tootie's ass.
Something short and sweet.
Then I'm led on a leash somehow into watching about fifty more videos. One of them was "Mickey," the hit song by Toni Basil from 1982. Total bubblegum fun. The video is energetic as the singer dances, bounces, kicks, splits, builds pyramids with cheerleaders and all kind of wheeeeeeeeeee!
So I posted something like, "She was 70-years-old when she made this video. She was in great shape!"
I actually received a response to that comment in my e-mail. Verbatim, it says:
actually about 39 - she was born in 1943
Jesus Christ. I cannot stand when people take pop culture so seriously!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Malaise and Madame
Honestly, I just don't know what to say.
I feel bored, and that scares me.
Is it peace creeping into my life?
It's like a malaise.
"Malaise-lite."
My life has been a ridiculous pattern of climbing up hills, reaching towers, and tumbling down, being thrown off - SPLAT! - in the middle of the moat, and getting up to do it again.
Sisyphusism.
I just do not know what to say, really, and I'm rarely at a loss for words. It's like that horrible dinner date I went on a few months ago. When we were in bed fucking, there was plenty to say. When we sat at a table across from each other eating hamburger sandwiches, my mind as empty as the sky after a storm.
The website I frequent more than any other is YouTube. I love it for music, clips of movies, and comedy bits. Sometimes I will get an old TV-theme song in my head and need to look it up - thank God for YouTube to satiate that pressing obligation. YouTube has recommendations for me that I check daily and because I looked at the Gimme a Break! theme song one day, they recommended this show called "Madam's Place" with that insane looking puppet:
(When I looked up an image for this fright, there were several comparisons to Joan Rivers, which are quite apt. Other celebrities that were compared to Madame include Cher, Quentin Tarantino, and Dolly Parton. There was also an image of George W. Bush next to Madame, which made me wonder if Bill Clinton fucked her.)
I sent an e-mail out with a clip to the show's theme song. This is where I get into wondering who is going (A) understand how extremely funny this clip is because of its camp value and (B) appreciate my brilliance because I wrote "Why the FUCK is this show still not on the air!?!?"
In any case, the show's introduction is hysterically funny.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EG2yJs3SwCM
Sample lyrics include:
When a young man looks at Madame,
She just throws herself right at him!
She's young at heart and still getting her kicks!
AND
Here at Madam's Place
She's the perfect host.
She rocks the airways
From coast to coast.
Then is says something about her
...charms in this funny farm
Okay.
Okay.
Another hilarious aspect of the theme is that it that when it flashes the actors' names on screen, it also states their characters' names AND what the character's role on the show is.
For example:
Also Starring:
Susan Tolsky
as Bernadette
her secretary
Johnny Haymer
as Pinkerton
her butler
Corey Feldman [yes, that one]
as Buzzy
the neighbor kid [with the Adam Rich haircut]
Ty Henderson [token black guy]
as Barney
her producer
Shit! This show was designed for mentally retarded gay men and people who watched Hollywood Squares, which could be one and the same.
But I will confess that I am now wanting to watch Madame videos. For anthropological research reasons only.
I feel bored, and that scares me.
Is it peace creeping into my life?
It's like a malaise.
"Malaise-lite."
My life has been a ridiculous pattern of climbing up hills, reaching towers, and tumbling down, being thrown off - SPLAT! - in the middle of the moat, and getting up to do it again.
Sisyphusism.
I just do not know what to say, really, and I'm rarely at a loss for words. It's like that horrible dinner date I went on a few months ago. When we were in bed fucking, there was plenty to say. When we sat at a table across from each other eating hamburger sandwiches, my mind as empty as the sky after a storm.
The website I frequent more than any other is YouTube. I love it for music, clips of movies, and comedy bits. Sometimes I will get an old TV-theme song in my head and need to look it up - thank God for YouTube to satiate that pressing obligation. YouTube has recommendations for me that I check daily and because I looked at the Gimme a Break! theme song one day, they recommended this show called "Madam's Place" with that insane looking puppet:
(When I looked up an image for this fright, there were several comparisons to Joan Rivers, which are quite apt. Other celebrities that were compared to Madame include Cher, Quentin Tarantino, and Dolly Parton. There was also an image of George W. Bush next to Madame, which made me wonder if Bill Clinton fucked her.)
I sent an e-mail out with a clip to the show's theme song. This is where I get into wondering who is going (A) understand how extremely funny this clip is because of its camp value and (B) appreciate my brilliance because I wrote "Why the FUCK is this show still not on the air!?!?"
In any case, the show's introduction is hysterically funny.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EG2yJs3SwCM
Sample lyrics include:
When a young man looks at Madame,
She just throws herself right at him!
She's young at heart and still getting her kicks!
AND
Here at Madam's Place
She's the perfect host.
She rocks the airways
From coast to coast.
Then is says something about her
...charms in this funny farm
Okay.
Okay.
Another hilarious aspect of the theme is that it that when it flashes the actors' names on screen, it also states their characters' names AND what the character's role on the show is.
For example:
Also Starring:
Susan Tolsky
as Bernadette
her secretary
Johnny Haymer
as Pinkerton
her butler
Corey Feldman [yes, that one]
as Buzzy
the neighbor kid [with the Adam Rich haircut]
Ty Henderson [token black guy]
as Barney
her producer
Shit! This show was designed for mentally retarded gay men and people who watched Hollywood Squares, which could be one and the same.
But I will confess that I am now wanting to watch Madame videos. For anthropological research reasons only.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Massacre
I have been essentially miserable for months. This is truly different from my usual misery. Migraine city. Or just headache city. One after another. Can't figure out of they're
migraine or
tension headaches or
sinus headaches or
rebound headaches.
My patience is truly thin today, I feel intolerant of all.
Last week I saw someone with a brand new, shiny Lexus SUV. Stuck to the bottom was a plastic bag that had melted onto the tailpipe. I felt embarrassed as it looked like a turd stuck on an animal's asshole. I think the SUV wanted to rub its back end on the ground to get the itchy bag off its tailpipe.
Two weeks ago I went into a Dunkin' Donuts near my job. I had a gift card given to me and was feeling gluttonous; this is not uncommon these days. Of course, there were two young men who happened to be beautiful working there. I felt the fat on my body hanging over as I scanned their sleek physiques. After taking my order for three sandwiches and six doughnuts - one doughnut was for someone else, the rest for me, but I pretended that the whole order was for my co-workers, a puzzled look on my face as I tried to recall what in the world did so-and-so order?, darn-it, I should have written that down! - a fashionable looking man with a fedora walked in to order a bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant and a coffee with cream, no sugar. I could only imagine how gross his breath would smell later.
He was funny to me because he was in a fucking American Dunkin' Donuts and pronounced "croissant" as kwah-SAH. He looked like a heavy drinker because his face was both doughy and severe. The Indian woman who took his order apparently disapproved of his drinking because she glared at him the whole time. I glanced at him surreptitiously so that I could use a five-syllable word in my blog.
He was given his sandwich before my three and looked in the bag. He asked for a ketchup packets. Without looking at him, the woman gave him a packet. He asked for more, saying he liked a lot of ketchup. Again, without looking at him, she gave him one packet. Here, he paused, and I could feel the tension mounting.
"I told you I like a lot of ketchup," he said. "Please give me at least four packets."
"No," the woman responded. "Only two for a sandwich."
I felt my own insides tightening. How dare she!? What was up with the condiment limits? Were we in a war? All of a sudden I wanted three for each of my sandwiches. I wanted nine packets.
"Ma'am," he said, and I could see that he was restraining the desire to raise his voice. "Please give me two more ketchups. I will pay for them."
At this point it was like the woman became unhinged. She began screaming that there was a limit of one ketchup per sandwich, she had already gone over the limit in giving him two, and they would run out if they gave everyone all the ketchup packets they ever wanted, couldn't he be satisfied with what he got!?
The man glared at her as if he had made a decision, took his sandwich, and left.
Now, I'm thinking because of this, the young man making my sandwich had gotten nervous, because he made mistakes on my order and gave me the wrong sandwiches. I had to wait while three more sandwiches were made. As I was getting my correct order and checking to make sure they were correct (I hate cheese), Fedora walked back into the shop with two bottles of ketchup in the squeeze bottles.
"Here you go, lady! Here's some ketchup for you!"
Fedora walked up to the counter and proceeded to shoot the red across onto all the doughnuts and muffins and bagels until they were bloodied with ketchup. I think it was Heinz brand, too, so it was thick and clinging. It took about 30 seconds, this pastry massacre.
While it was happening, I thought of how fortunate I was to have already gotten my cream doughnuts.
migraine or
tension headaches or
sinus headaches or
rebound headaches.
My patience is truly thin today, I feel intolerant of all.
Last week I saw someone with a brand new, shiny Lexus SUV. Stuck to the bottom was a plastic bag that had melted onto the tailpipe. I felt embarrassed as it looked like a turd stuck on an animal's asshole. I think the SUV wanted to rub its back end on the ground to get the itchy bag off its tailpipe.
Two weeks ago I went into a Dunkin' Donuts near my job. I had a gift card given to me and was feeling gluttonous; this is not uncommon these days. Of course, there were two young men who happened to be beautiful working there. I felt the fat on my body hanging over as I scanned their sleek physiques. After taking my order for three sandwiches and six doughnuts - one doughnut was for someone else, the rest for me, but I pretended that the whole order was for my co-workers, a puzzled look on my face as I tried to recall what in the world did so-and-so order?, darn-it, I should have written that down! - a fashionable looking man with a fedora walked in to order a bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant and a coffee with cream, no sugar. I could only imagine how gross his breath would smell later.
He was funny to me because he was in a fucking American Dunkin' Donuts and pronounced "croissant" as kwah-SAH. He looked like a heavy drinker because his face was both doughy and severe. The Indian woman who took his order apparently disapproved of his drinking because she glared at him the whole time. I glanced at him surreptitiously so that I could use a five-syllable word in my blog.
He was given his sandwich before my three and looked in the bag. He asked for a ketchup packets. Without looking at him, the woman gave him a packet. He asked for more, saying he liked a lot of ketchup. Again, without looking at him, she gave him one packet. Here, he paused, and I could feel the tension mounting.
"I told you I like a lot of ketchup," he said. "Please give me at least four packets."
"No," the woman responded. "Only two for a sandwich."
I felt my own insides tightening. How dare she!? What was up with the condiment limits? Were we in a war? All of a sudden I wanted three for each of my sandwiches. I wanted nine packets.
"Ma'am," he said, and I could see that he was restraining the desire to raise his voice. "Please give me two more ketchups. I will pay for them."
At this point it was like the woman became unhinged. She began screaming that there was a limit of one ketchup per sandwich, she had already gone over the limit in giving him two, and they would run out if they gave everyone all the ketchup packets they ever wanted, couldn't he be satisfied with what he got!?
The man glared at her as if he had made a decision, took his sandwich, and left.
Now, I'm thinking because of this, the young man making my sandwich had gotten nervous, because he made mistakes on my order and gave me the wrong sandwiches. I had to wait while three more sandwiches were made. As I was getting my correct order and checking to make sure they were correct (I hate cheese), Fedora walked back into the shop with two bottles of ketchup in the squeeze bottles.
"Here you go, lady! Here's some ketchup for you!"
Fedora walked up to the counter and proceeded to shoot the red across onto all the doughnuts and muffins and bagels until they were bloodied with ketchup. I think it was Heinz brand, too, so it was thick and clinging. It took about 30 seconds, this pastry massacre.
While it was happening, I thought of how fortunate I was to have already gotten my cream doughnuts.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Buying Cat Food
My cats are not the type that I can let go hungry for even a little bit. The cat food bowl is not allowed to even go down halfway before the orange cat begins stalking me throughout the apartment howling as if he's at death's door. I do my best to make sure that I get a new bag of IAMS before the other bag even runs out, but this wasn't the case yesterday; the bag had already run out. So I had to go to the Rite-Aid.
I love the CVS, but I hate the Rite-Aid. CVS has clean aisles, usually fully stocked, the cashiers are all younger than ninety-years-old. The Rite-Aid smells like spoiled milk, usually has Christian or country-western music playing (no joke - Dolly Parton is cute to look at, but come on!), and perpetually has wind chimes on sale near the front that people are bumping into. But the Rite-Aid is much closer and the Survivor finale was on last night, so I had to go there.
In addition to buying the IAMS and some saltine crackers so that I could make peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwiches, I bought two cans of Fancy Feast.
The cats go ape-shit when I feed them a can. I think they put cocaine in that cat food. Sometimes I fear for my life.
I arrived at the counter to pay the cashier. There was two customers ahead of me and she commented on everything they were buying. "Oh, that's a good deal. Mmm, I'ma have to get me somma that." What the fuck was she talking about that she wanted to get Old Spice after-shave?
Meanwhile, I looked and saw a People Magazine in a rack. There was a photograph of Bret Michaels
in his hospital bed with his bandana wrapped around his head. This is pure comedy to me.
If I am ever in the hospital again (Heaven forbid! There are no smoking rooms there!), I want to put cowboy hats
, party hats
, tiaras
, and baskets of fruit 
on my head and have people take pictures of me.
When I finally was able to place my three items on the counter, the woman just said, "Huh." I looked at her and could see that her gums were tan and black - black! - as if she'd been a snuff chewer for the past 70 years. Her voice sounded like she chewed some glass and a few shards were caught in her throat.
"Huh." Dripping with judgment, that "huh."
So I told her that it was my dinner. I explained, maintaining eye contact, that the Chicken Feast Classic was very much like pate and tasted wonderful on a cracker.
She looked repulsed by me, shook her head, and said, "That ain't even right."
But that was all she said to me.
I love the CVS, but I hate the Rite-Aid. CVS has clean aisles, usually fully stocked, the cashiers are all younger than ninety-years-old. The Rite-Aid smells like spoiled milk, usually has Christian or country-western music playing (no joke - Dolly Parton is cute to look at, but come on!), and perpetually has wind chimes on sale near the front that people are bumping into. But the Rite-Aid is much closer and the Survivor finale was on last night, so I had to go there.
In addition to buying the IAMS and some saltine crackers so that I could make peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwiches, I bought two cans of Fancy Feast.
The cats go ape-shit when I feed them a can. I think they put cocaine in that cat food. Sometimes I fear for my life.
I arrived at the counter to pay the cashier. There was two customers ahead of me and she commented on everything they were buying. "Oh, that's a good deal. Mmm, I'ma have to get me somma that." What the fuck was she talking about that she wanted to get Old Spice after-shave?
Meanwhile, I looked and saw a People Magazine in a rack. There was a photograph of Bret Michaels
in his hospital bed with his bandana wrapped around his head. This is pure comedy to me.If I am ever in the hospital again (Heaven forbid! There are no smoking rooms there!), I want to put cowboy hats
, party hats
, tiaras
, and baskets of fruit 
on my head and have people take pictures of me.When I finally was able to place my three items on the counter, the woman just said, "Huh." I looked at her and could see that her gums were tan and black - black! - as if she'd been a snuff chewer for the past 70 years. Her voice sounded like she chewed some glass and a few shards were caught in her throat.
"Huh." Dripping with judgment, that "huh."
So I told her that it was my dinner. I explained, maintaining eye contact, that the Chicken Feast Classic was very much like pate and tasted wonderful on a cracker.
She looked repulsed by me, shook her head, and said, "That ain't even right."
But that was all she said to me.
Monday, May 3, 2010
BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!
Yesterday, a lovely woman who I casually know called me "precious." She wasn't making a reference to the movie about the abused teen in Harlem, either. "Precious" is not an adjective that I (and definitely my coworkers) generally use to describe me. I could see "salty," or "fresh-mouthed," or "tornado," but not "precious."
It got me thinking about my spiritual advisor. I have known L______ for close to 20 years. We met when I was 18-years-old, but became friends when I was 19.
She has blond curly hair, very soft looking, like baby hair, and blue eyes. Now that she's in her 60s, her hair is thinner, but it still evokes a baby girl. When I first saw her, I could see the most excellent life energy she exuded; it drew me to her. Men love her. Women do too, once they get over their fears.
She blazes with light. I suppose it would be the light of God. I have been places with her and people are taken aback. They are confused by her light - it blinds them. They are angry, sometimes, because of their confusion and want to squelch her light. She doesn't allow this, but she allows them to be. Many men want to possess her to have that light.
When she was three-years-old, she would stand in her driveway and greet the neighbors. Here was this little dumpling in a dress with a dirty face waving and shouting "Hi!" to people. She always had an open heart and was interested in people.
L is the kind of person you can tell anything - anything - to and feel safe. She will love you.
She has worked hard to be this kind of person. She will tell you freely about her unsavory behavior of the past. She showed me a photograph of her at 16-years-old from a house party. She was drunk. Her hair in a Jackie O-flip, she stared alluringly at the camera. You could tell she felt warm in that picture, drunk in a good way, before you feel nauseous and dizzy and want to vomit. She had a scratch on her face, barely noticeable, because she had gotten in a fight with one of her girlfriends.
She tells the story of being on her knees in adulthood, so drunk that she was vomiting and shitting at the same time. She cupped her hand by her ass to prevent too much shit from getting on the floor.
She tells the story of having sex with three men in the same day and not even washing herself between. "Man, I thought I was hot stuff!" she exclaims. "Boy, was I delusional!"
In her early 40s, L made the decision to stop drinking. She has stayed stopped for more than 20 years. She has worked hard to develop a close relationship with God and it gives her joy. She helps people every day of her life. She meditates. She practices yoga. She is a vegan. She doesn't use curse words.
Last year a tragedy struck her family. Her sister's daughter drowned in the ocean. L called me up, shaken up, and told me that she loved me and to enjoy every day because we never know when life will be taken away. Later, she told me matter of factly that she would not be dancing at her niece's grave.
"Huh?" I asked.
L then explained that at one sister's burial years prior (L comes from a family of eleven children), she had brought a boom box and performed an interpretive dance in her leotards in the cemetary. She knew that her deceased sister would have loved her performance, but the living relatives did not appreciate it.
When I was 19, she took me to Quaker meetings (I looked for the Oatmeal guy, but he never appeared). Who would have thought a young drug addict would be open to attending Quaker meetings? L has that effect on people.
She always told me that I was a precious gift. It sounded absurd to me. Sometimes she would make me say that I was a precious gift. I would giggle. She would drop me at the corner of where I was living at the time and wait until I climbed to the porch. Then, for the whole world to hear, she would shout, "BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!" and speed away (that was kind of naughty of her, I think). My teenage eyes would dart frantically up and down the block to see which people were staring at the precious gift in their midst.
Gratitude does not come naturally for me. I have to constantly, consciously remind myself of things for which I am grateful. My spiritual advisor is always at the top of the list.
It got me thinking about my spiritual advisor. I have known L______ for close to 20 years. We met when I was 18-years-old, but became friends when I was 19.
She has blond curly hair, very soft looking, like baby hair, and blue eyes. Now that she's in her 60s, her hair is thinner, but it still evokes a baby girl. When I first saw her, I could see the most excellent life energy she exuded; it drew me to her. Men love her. Women do too, once they get over their fears.
She blazes with light. I suppose it would be the light of God. I have been places with her and people are taken aback. They are confused by her light - it blinds them. They are angry, sometimes, because of their confusion and want to squelch her light. She doesn't allow this, but she allows them to be. Many men want to possess her to have that light.
When she was three-years-old, she would stand in her driveway and greet the neighbors. Here was this little dumpling in a dress with a dirty face waving and shouting "Hi!" to people. She always had an open heart and was interested in people.
L is the kind of person you can tell anything - anything - to and feel safe. She will love you.
She has worked hard to be this kind of person. She will tell you freely about her unsavory behavior of the past. She showed me a photograph of her at 16-years-old from a house party. She was drunk. Her hair in a Jackie O-flip, she stared alluringly at the camera. You could tell she felt warm in that picture, drunk in a good way, before you feel nauseous and dizzy and want to vomit. She had a scratch on her face, barely noticeable, because she had gotten in a fight with one of her girlfriends.
She tells the story of being on her knees in adulthood, so drunk that she was vomiting and shitting at the same time. She cupped her hand by her ass to prevent too much shit from getting on the floor.
She tells the story of having sex with three men in the same day and not even washing herself between. "Man, I thought I was hot stuff!" she exclaims. "Boy, was I delusional!"
In her early 40s, L made the decision to stop drinking. She has stayed stopped for more than 20 years. She has worked hard to develop a close relationship with God and it gives her joy. She helps people every day of her life. She meditates. She practices yoga. She is a vegan. She doesn't use curse words.
Last year a tragedy struck her family. Her sister's daughter drowned in the ocean. L called me up, shaken up, and told me that she loved me and to enjoy every day because we never know when life will be taken away. Later, she told me matter of factly that she would not be dancing at her niece's grave.
"Huh?" I asked.
L then explained that at one sister's burial years prior (L comes from a family of eleven children), she had brought a boom box and performed an interpretive dance in her leotards in the cemetary. She knew that her deceased sister would have loved her performance, but the living relatives did not appreciate it.
When I was 19, she took me to Quaker meetings (I looked for the Oatmeal guy, but he never appeared). Who would have thought a young drug addict would be open to attending Quaker meetings? L has that effect on people.
She always told me that I was a precious gift. It sounded absurd to me. Sometimes she would make me say that I was a precious gift. I would giggle. She would drop me at the corner of where I was living at the time and wait until I climbed to the porch. Then, for the whole world to hear, she would shout, "BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!" and speed away (that was kind of naughty of her, I think). My teenage eyes would dart frantically up and down the block to see which people were staring at the precious gift in their midst.
Gratitude does not come naturally for me. I have to constantly, consciously remind myself of things for which I am grateful. My spiritual advisor is always at the top of the list.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Be A Neat Bug!
In celebration of Earth Day, many teachers in my school have had their students write about recycling, planting trees, and sundry ways to care for Earth.
A first-grade girl wrote an excellent paragraph detailing the ways that we should care for our planet. She finished her mini-essay with, "Don't be a litter bug. Be a neat bug!"
A first-grade girl wrote an excellent paragraph detailing the ways that we should care for our planet. She finished her mini-essay with, "Don't be a litter bug. Be a neat bug!"
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Getting Older
Trying a new font again.
I know that my last blog was a little feeling-sorry-for-myself. It was the beginning of a migraine cycle, what can I say. Okay, and I do feel like I should receive an award or certificate or medal for taking care of myself sometimes. I just do. It's an area in my life where I'm immature, I'll admit it.
It's chilly out right now, and drizzling. I was thinking, though, of how neat it might feel to walk down the street naked if it were about 15 degrees warmer. Think about the precipitation on your privates, the breeze on your butt, the sun on your areola. How freeing it would feel! Why must it be only 3-year-olds and women on angel dust and/or crack who get to experience nudity in public?
Why no go to a nudist beach, Anonymister?, you may ask.
Uh, because I possess common decency.
So my sister texts me:
OMG, there's this this website called ____________ and this hermaphrodite has sex with this girl and the girl eats its pussy and sucks its dick and i was like gagging and almost threw up. it's so disgusting!
My first thought is for her to send me the link.
Years ago, in 1999, I read the book Geek Love. Very well written book. An ex-boyfriend had sent it to me (it was my first package ever delivered from amazon.com) because at that time I was very into freaks. (Is there a politically correct way to say it - "freaks"? Who cares? Are they going to boycott my blog?) These were people with physical abnormalities. I loved them. I wanted to find some to be my friends. I don't know why; I just did. I had watched the Tod Browning film "Freaks" and fallen in love with them, especially Schlitzie.
I remember my sister sitting with me in my apartment and watching me rewind the VCR tape and watch the scenes with Schlitzie over and over.
Jesus Christ, she would exclaim. Enough already!
I don't know why I like the things I like.
Anyway, this was when I had first discovered the internet, 1999. I would surf the web and find website after website about freaks. Massive human beings, tiny people, emaciated people, ugly people with cranial deformities, people with extra body parts located in fucked-up places, people with missing body parts...oh, the list went heavenly on and on. There were, too, the delightful conjoined twins (that's politically correct; do NOT call them "Siamese twins").
Like any addiction, it took more and more for me to get a hit. I needed more and more freakish pictures to delight in the freakishness of the specimen.
Let me add that I was in graduate school at the time. It was a great distraction when I had to read empirical research. However, I had only so much time to search the web. I was not savvy about searching for websites and if google.com existed, I was not aware of it. So there was just a limited amount of time and sites that I saw.
Fast forward to now.
Of course I go to the website that my sister talked about. I want to see the hermaphrodite have sex! I read the Pulitzer-Prize winning novel Middlesex!
But when I got to the site, I lost courage.
Is this what comes when one gets older?
I used to relish in looking at the freakiest shit possible.
And "shit" is not an exaggeration. If I heard about a site with German people squealing "Ja, Ja" while they farted in each others mouths and sucked a shitty dildo, my fingers made a beeline for that site!
Now, though, I don't want to upset my subconscious.
I don't want to watch a video of a whore with a toilet seat around her face while she sucks a man's stump leg (although typing that did make me giggle).
I don't want to see an old woman with a massive maggot infestation in her face.
I don't want to watch "handicapped sex." Nor do I want to see pussy lips knotted or carrots stuffed up someone's asshole. I just don't.
I'd really rather see flowers and kittens and sunsets.
BUT
I will admit that I watched the small penis contest that Howard Stern had on his show.
This makes me doubt the existence of God. I mean, how cruel! I've seen clits bigger than some of those dicks.
I know that my last blog was a little feeling-sorry-for-myself. It was the beginning of a migraine cycle, what can I say. Okay, and I do feel like I should receive an award or certificate or medal for taking care of myself sometimes. I just do. It's an area in my life where I'm immature, I'll admit it.
It's chilly out right now, and drizzling. I was thinking, though, of how neat it might feel to walk down the street naked if it were about 15 degrees warmer. Think about the precipitation on your privates, the breeze on your butt, the sun on your areola. How freeing it would feel! Why must it be only 3-year-olds and women on angel dust and/or crack who get to experience nudity in public?
Why no go to a nudist beach, Anonymister?, you may ask.
Uh, because I possess common decency.
So my sister texts me:
OMG, there's this this website called ____________ and this hermaphrodite has sex with this girl and the girl eats its pussy and sucks its dick and i was like gagging and almost threw up. it's so disgusting!
My first thought is for her to send me the link.
Years ago, in 1999, I read the book Geek Love. Very well written book. An ex-boyfriend had sent it to me (it was my first package ever delivered from amazon.com) because at that time I was very into freaks. (Is there a politically correct way to say it - "freaks"? Who cares? Are they going to boycott my blog?) These were people with physical abnormalities. I loved them. I wanted to find some to be my friends. I don't know why; I just did. I had watched the Tod Browning film "Freaks" and fallen in love with them, especially Schlitzie.
I remember my sister sitting with me in my apartment and watching me rewind the VCR tape and watch the scenes with Schlitzie over and over.
Jesus Christ, she would exclaim. Enough already!
I don't know why I like the things I like.
Anyway, this was when I had first discovered the internet, 1999. I would surf the web and find website after website about freaks. Massive human beings, tiny people, emaciated people, ugly people with cranial deformities, people with extra body parts located in fucked-up places, people with missing body parts...oh, the list went heavenly on and on. There were, too, the delightful conjoined twins (that's politically correct; do NOT call them "Siamese twins").
Like any addiction, it took more and more for me to get a hit. I needed more and more freakish pictures to delight in the freakishness of the specimen.
Let me add that I was in graduate school at the time. It was a great distraction when I had to read empirical research. However, I had only so much time to search the web. I was not savvy about searching for websites and if google.com existed, I was not aware of it. So there was just a limited amount of time and sites that I saw.
Fast forward to now.
Of course I go to the website that my sister talked about. I want to see the hermaphrodite have sex! I read the Pulitzer-Prize winning novel Middlesex!
But when I got to the site, I lost courage.
Is this what comes when one gets older?
I used to relish in looking at the freakiest shit possible.
And "shit" is not an exaggeration. If I heard about a site with German people squealing "Ja, Ja" while they farted in each others mouths and sucked a shitty dildo, my fingers made a beeline for that site!
Now, though, I don't want to upset my subconscious.
I don't want to watch a video of a whore with a toilet seat around her face while she sucks a man's stump leg (although typing that did make me giggle).
I don't want to see an old woman with a massive maggot infestation in her face.
I don't want to watch "handicapped sex." Nor do I want to see pussy lips knotted or carrots stuffed up someone's asshole. I just don't.
I'd really rather see flowers and kittens and sunsets.
BUT
I will admit that I watched the small penis contest that Howard Stern had on his show.
This makes me doubt the existence of God. I mean, how cruel! I've seen clits bigger than some of those dicks.
Monday, April 19, 2010
For Your Viewing Pleasure
Fatigue. Malaise. Exhaustion. Those are the words that describe me the past few days. It's so much work sometimes to take care of myself. I am grateful for a lot. I really am. But sometimes I get the feeling of resentment that I'm doing it all alone. I want some help. I was thinking of dating sites. Just thinking, as I'm not quite ready to date right now. Still have some "issues" that I'd like to sort out. But I am lonely at times. Actually, I have sort-of, kind-of dated a few people in the past year. I see what I like and what I don't like. I start to consider that I'm going to be limited in the men that I date because...well, sometimes, I think I might be crazy. My friends who love me say that I am special. That sounds like a person who participated in the Retarded Olympics.
I thought of going on match.com. I did it years ago and actually met a boyfriend. I had gone on there simply looking to date people...just practice dating...and I met a boyfriend. It was cool. He smelled good and had nice skin, too.
Then I considered what I would put on an ad these days...I'm getting too old to waste time with nonsense.
I contemplated putting the following arbitrary photographs on a match.com profile. I took them with my cell phone at various times during the past year. They struck me for some reason and I had to take the picture. I wonder if they would intrigue someone.
The following photo was taken last summer on a day in which the temperature was 258 degrees Fahrenheit:
I was blown away that the nun had a full habit on in the heat. Literally ten seconds after I slyly snapped her photo, she melted in a puddle. She looked exactly like a Klondike Bar. Ever curious, I tasted her, and it turned out that she was vanilla on the inside with a crunchy chocolate shell.
This photo was taken while I was waiting in the colon rectal surgeon's office:
.jpg)
It was prior to knowing that I was going to have (yet another) fistulotomy. It was the cover of Reader's Digest. I did not read it, but the horse in the wig was a real knee-slapper. I sent it via phone to many people. A few replied. One friend said, "I wish I looked that good."
This was a fucked-up looking grape that some of my 5th grade boys had:
I felt embarrassed for the grape because we laughed at it.
This was a peanut butter cup taken that had melted in my friend's driveway in another large east coast city:
To make her laugh, I bent down and smelled it. To heighten the hilarity, some of the chocolate got on the tip of my nose. Warm fecal matter on my nose was entertaining to us.
Next, there was this sign propped on the desk of the woman who did my intake prior to my surgery:
I wondered how many plastic jars of shit she had on her desk before she decided to make that sign.
This bird was on the street after I had brunch one Sunday:
I purposely walked down that street for close to a week to see if it was still there. It stayed there for six days! If I had a yard and had found it, I would have buried it there. But the little sparrow just rotted in public view.
Finally, this is the most recent photo:
I took it this past weekend. It is the pink petals that the wind blew down from the trees. I have tried like hell to determine to what tree they belonged, but no luck. I will ask my neighbor, who is good at that stuff. I like how they carpeted the ground and made the concrete look soft and fancy.
When I am happy, I am blissful. I rarely miss a trick. There is much to love in this world; there is much to be amused by. But it can also be so exhausting to not shut off. There is no filter between my insides and what is outside.
I thought of going on match.com. I did it years ago and actually met a boyfriend. I had gone on there simply looking to date people...just practice dating...and I met a boyfriend. It was cool. He smelled good and had nice skin, too.
Then I considered what I would put on an ad these days...I'm getting too old to waste time with nonsense.
I contemplated putting the following arbitrary photographs on a match.com profile. I took them with my cell phone at various times during the past year. They struck me for some reason and I had to take the picture. I wonder if they would intrigue someone.
The following photo was taken last summer on a day in which the temperature was 258 degrees Fahrenheit:
I was blown away that the nun had a full habit on in the heat. Literally ten seconds after I slyly snapped her photo, she melted in a puddle. She looked exactly like a Klondike Bar. Ever curious, I tasted her, and it turned out that she was vanilla on the inside with a crunchy chocolate shell.
This photo was taken while I was waiting in the colon rectal surgeon's office:
.jpg)
It was prior to knowing that I was going to have (yet another) fistulotomy. It was the cover of Reader's Digest. I did not read it, but the horse in the wig was a real knee-slapper. I sent it via phone to many people. A few replied. One friend said, "I wish I looked that good."
This was a fucked-up looking grape that some of my 5th grade boys had:
I felt embarrassed for the grape because we laughed at it.
This was a peanut butter cup taken that had melted in my friend's driveway in another large east coast city:
To make her laugh, I bent down and smelled it. To heighten the hilarity, some of the chocolate got on the tip of my nose. Warm fecal matter on my nose was entertaining to us.
Next, there was this sign propped on the desk of the woman who did my intake prior to my surgery:
I wondered how many plastic jars of shit she had on her desk before she decided to make that sign.
This bird was on the street after I had brunch one Sunday:
I purposely walked down that street for close to a week to see if it was still there. It stayed there for six days! If I had a yard and had found it, I would have buried it there. But the little sparrow just rotted in public view.
Finally, this is the most recent photo:
I took it this past weekend. It is the pink petals that the wind blew down from the trees. I have tried like hell to determine to what tree they belonged, but no luck. I will ask my neighbor, who is good at that stuff. I like how they carpeted the ground and made the concrete look soft and fancy.
When I am happy, I am blissful. I rarely miss a trick. There is much to love in this world; there is much to be amused by. But it can also be so exhausting to not shut off. There is no filter between my insides and what is outside.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
One Skin, Two Skin, Three Skin...
A few years ago a placed an ad online for tutoring. I tutored two Jewish sisters for more than a year. Their parents were very good to me; quite generous. I have heard about the stereotype of cheap Jewish people, but have never experienced it. All of my experiences with Jewish people, all of my Jewish friends, have been nothing but generous. Food! Money! Time and love!
One day, after I had been tutoring the girls for months, I received a text message from the father:
Are you circumcised?
Something about the tone seemed urgent.
I replied that I indeed am.
He responded that he and his wife were just wondering. And then explained that "HIV is easier to contract if a person is uncircumcised and you're a top."
What kind liberal straight people to worry about me and my physical health!
When I grew up, I did not know about anything but circumcised penises. My father is circumcised, as are my brothers, as were all of my friends. I did not know about uncircumcised penises until I saw one in a textbook when I was around 12-years-old. I thought it looked ugly. It reminded me of a cocoon hanging from a branch.
I first experienced one with a Chilean boyfriend when I was 17-years-old. I was at a party with a bunch of men. This guy was 21. We got high all night and then went into a bedroom where someone was passed out on the floor. During making out, we put our hands down each others' pants. His penis, though definitely hard, felt gelatinous at the same time. And then I smelled something somewhat rancid. This was was my first experience with smegma.
Squishy and fishy.
Fortunately I haven't had many more experiences with it. It is heinously gross.
A friend of mine told me that there is a cheese in France made from smegma. I was incredulous and told him he was insane. I also told him this was his sick fantasy.
I have since had boyfriends with uncircumcised penises whose hygiene was impeccable. This is necessary for me.
I remember there was one boyfriend, when I lived in a large midwestern city, who was clean and uncircumcised. When we were finished having sex, he asked if I had any Q-tips. I did, and directed him to their location in the bathroom. Curious about his urgency for Q-tips, I peeked into the bathroom, assuming that he was cleaning out his foreskin. Why wouldn't I think this - he was so clean! However, he was swabbing out his ears. Nothing was on the Q-tip cotton. Turned out this was a ritual that he performed after every orgasm.
One day, after I had been tutoring the girls for months, I received a text message from the father:
Are you circumcised?
Something about the tone seemed urgent.
I replied that I indeed am.
He responded that he and his wife were just wondering. And then explained that "HIV is easier to contract if a person is uncircumcised and you're a top."
What kind liberal straight people to worry about me and my physical health!
When I grew up, I did not know about anything but circumcised penises. My father is circumcised, as are my brothers, as were all of my friends. I did not know about uncircumcised penises until I saw one in a textbook when I was around 12-years-old. I thought it looked ugly. It reminded me of a cocoon hanging from a branch.
I first experienced one with a Chilean boyfriend when I was 17-years-old. I was at a party with a bunch of men. This guy was 21. We got high all night and then went into a bedroom where someone was passed out on the floor. During making out, we put our hands down each others' pants. His penis, though definitely hard, felt gelatinous at the same time. And then I smelled something somewhat rancid. This was was my first experience with smegma.
Squishy and fishy.
Fortunately I haven't had many more experiences with it. It is heinously gross.
A friend of mine told me that there is a cheese in France made from smegma. I was incredulous and told him he was insane. I also told him this was his sick fantasy.
I have since had boyfriends with uncircumcised penises whose hygiene was impeccable. This is necessary for me.
I remember there was one boyfriend, when I lived in a large midwestern city, who was clean and uncircumcised. When we were finished having sex, he asked if I had any Q-tips. I did, and directed him to their location in the bathroom. Curious about his urgency for Q-tips, I peeked into the bathroom, assuming that he was cleaning out his foreskin. Why wouldn't I think this - he was so clean! However, he was swabbing out his ears. Nothing was on the Q-tip cotton. Turned out this was a ritual that he performed after every orgasm.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Walking Through America
It is not Mr. Rugby's fault, but I hate him anyway. Today I do. Today I'm in the funky battle of being down in the dumps and Jack and Guy are nowhere around - it's just Anonymister.
Yesterday my fucking wallet was stolen - stolen! - by little fingers right out of my expensive fancy leather briefcase at school. A 4th grader is the culprit, but I don't know which one. It saddens me greatly because I love the kids, as a whole; I just hate the individuals.
Anyway, this is the kind of shit that presents a battle for me in life - hell, much of life is a battle, honestly - because the tendency is to get into fetal position and nurse the victimization. That's the thing when one has their car broken into, or they're mugged, or their tasteful wallet is swiped from their fancy leather briefcase: you ARE a victim. If you feel like you've been victimized it's because you have been. The tricky part for someone like me is avoiding the wallowing like a piggy in a muddy puddle in it.
To my credit, I woke up to take a walk and get the heart rate going. I need this because (1) My heart is heavy with sadness and anger and (2) I ate a box of ice cream sandwiches last night. Also, my acupuncturist was feeling around for some meridian or qi spots (they're not like G-spots) under my ribs and I felt mortified because it seemed like he was moving through Jell-o.
So walking through my neighborhood, I look at people. And I think of all that I need to be happy. Oh, if I only had a boyfriend who understood me. And gave good head. And: Oh, if only I could could go visit Europe for a month. And: Oh, if only I had nice curtains for my bedroom. But back to the people.
I see the white dad with his little girl who has her red hair flowing out of her hood because it's windy out today. What an intense conversation they are having; what a serious child she must be.
There's the Asian couple (I'm sorry, I don't know if they're Korean or Chinese) who come down the steps of their building ready to go jogging. I wonder if they're American born and raised or if they're immigrants. Do they have accents?
There's the interracial couple - black and white, woman and man - crossing the street - engaged in conversation. They're in their late 50s, early 60s. Have they been together a very long time? Did they battle extreme prejudice to be a couple, or just slight prejudice if they're a recent couple?
There's the homeless older black man who hocks and spits whilst walking in front of me. Does he have tuberculosis? Did I close my mouth quickly enough so that his saliva didn't get into my mouth and infect me in case he has it?
There's the little Latina girl, jumping out of the car, excited to run to the door of her grandmother's house, her blue dress chasing her as she runs up the steps to ring the doorbell.
There's the young black man basking in the sun eating breakfast, his eyes a brilliant hazel color from the solar light. He doesn't respond when I say hello.
And then, in the home stretch, there's the white rugby player. He has a fleece with his college name and RUGBY printed on it. He has a Siberian Husky with pale blue eyes. The dog has a kinder manner than him. The dog is more curious than he is. The white rugby player is a heterosexual male, tall, blue eyes, thick brown hair, athletic, handsome. He walks smoothly through this world. He's never self-conscious. He's a WASP. He part of the power culture: straight, white male. He's never doubted that he will be okay in life. Things will come to him and he is entitled to them.
I hate him for this. Today, I do.
Usually, I find people like this boring. I am generally drawn to people who have suffered in some way because I believe it makes them interesting. I just think that, and usually I am right. In fact, I will stand by this because it is my experience.
Today I am not going to judge myself for being angry at Mr. Rugby. I am also going to acknowledge that I am glad that he has that security in the world. I wish that for all people. It would be fair and equitable if we all had those feelings of security.
The thought occurred to me that I have frequently enjoyed my neighborhood because I have believed it was a microcosm of society: black, white, Latino, Asian, straight, gay, students, professional, families, etc. I don't think so. This may be a hodgepodge of urban east coast society, but it is certainly not American society.
I hope that Mr. Rugby and his big titted girlfriend have a nice day and forgive me for my assumptions.
Yesterday my fucking wallet was stolen - stolen! - by little fingers right out of my expensive fancy leather briefcase at school. A 4th grader is the culprit, but I don't know which one. It saddens me greatly because I love the kids, as a whole; I just hate the individuals.
Anyway, this is the kind of shit that presents a battle for me in life - hell, much of life is a battle, honestly - because the tendency is to get into fetal position and nurse the victimization. That's the thing when one has their car broken into, or they're mugged, or their tasteful wallet is swiped from their fancy leather briefcase: you ARE a victim. If you feel like you've been victimized it's because you have been. The tricky part for someone like me is avoiding the wallowing like a piggy in a muddy puddle in it.
To my credit, I woke up to take a walk and get the heart rate going. I need this because (1) My heart is heavy with sadness and anger and (2) I ate a box of ice cream sandwiches last night. Also, my acupuncturist was feeling around for some meridian or qi spots (they're not like G-spots) under my ribs and I felt mortified because it seemed like he was moving through Jell-o.
So walking through my neighborhood, I look at people. And I think of all that I need to be happy. Oh, if I only had a boyfriend who understood me. And gave good head. And: Oh, if only I could could go visit Europe for a month. And: Oh, if only I had nice curtains for my bedroom. But back to the people.
I see the white dad with his little girl who has her red hair flowing out of her hood because it's windy out today. What an intense conversation they are having; what a serious child she must be.
There's the Asian couple (I'm sorry, I don't know if they're Korean or Chinese) who come down the steps of their building ready to go jogging. I wonder if they're American born and raised or if they're immigrants. Do they have accents?
There's the interracial couple - black and white, woman and man - crossing the street - engaged in conversation. They're in their late 50s, early 60s. Have they been together a very long time? Did they battle extreme prejudice to be a couple, or just slight prejudice if they're a recent couple?
There's the homeless older black man who hocks and spits whilst walking in front of me. Does he have tuberculosis? Did I close my mouth quickly enough so that his saliva didn't get into my mouth and infect me in case he has it?
There's the little Latina girl, jumping out of the car, excited to run to the door of her grandmother's house, her blue dress chasing her as she runs up the steps to ring the doorbell.
There's the young black man basking in the sun eating breakfast, his eyes a brilliant hazel color from the solar light. He doesn't respond when I say hello.
And then, in the home stretch, there's the white rugby player. He has a fleece with his college name and RUGBY printed on it. He has a Siberian Husky with pale blue eyes. The dog has a kinder manner than him. The dog is more curious than he is. The white rugby player is a heterosexual male, tall, blue eyes, thick brown hair, athletic, handsome. He walks smoothly through this world. He's never self-conscious. He's a WASP. He part of the power culture: straight, white male. He's never doubted that he will be okay in life. Things will come to him and he is entitled to them.
I hate him for this. Today, I do.
Usually, I find people like this boring. I am generally drawn to people who have suffered in some way because I believe it makes them interesting. I just think that, and usually I am right. In fact, I will stand by this because it is my experience.
Today I am not going to judge myself for being angry at Mr. Rugby. I am also going to acknowledge that I am glad that he has that security in the world. I wish that for all people. It would be fair and equitable if we all had those feelings of security.
The thought occurred to me that I have frequently enjoyed my neighborhood because I have believed it was a microcosm of society: black, white, Latino, Asian, straight, gay, students, professional, families, etc. I don't think so. This may be a hodgepodge of urban east coast society, but it is certainly not American society.
I hope that Mr. Rugby and his big titted girlfriend have a nice day and forgive me for my assumptions.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Peeps and Blogs
"I don't want to hear, 'Dad, dad, anymore. Just SHUT UP and play nicely! SHUT UP!'"
This is what I just heard as I came from the basement next door where I sometimes do my laundry. This is where the coin-operated washer and dryer are located. My landlord, a nice and gentle man, is also admittedly cheap. One day I was walking home and saw him hanging things to dry in the basement. Goddamn, he's cheaper than I thought, I thought. Fucking washing things in the basement basin. Later, I realized he has his own washer in our building! The cheapskate keeps that for himself! But there is no dryer, as I saw him hanging his gray, but-used-to-be-white jockeys on a clothes rack.
When I heard the man yelling at his child(ren?), I did the thing of forcing myself to pretend that I heard nothing and briskly locked the door next door and opened the one to my building.
I've looked at some of the other blogs that blogger.com offers. All you have to do is press the "next blog" button at the top of the page. So many of them are the same! Are they cutting and pasting the ABOUT ME part?
Basically they read:
I am a God-fearing and loving Christian woman who is sooooooooo lucky to have three wonderful children - Bradley Lou, Brianna Lynn, and Brittany Lee - even though they all have leukemia. I am happily married to my husband, Todd, who fucks me whenever he wants, and sometimes fingers my daughters! What are ya gonna do - he's a man! :) I home school the kids here in Whitesville, Kentucky, and belong to a rifle club! :-) Sarah Palin and Laura Bush are my heros [sic] and I collect Precious Moments figurines because they are soooooo cute!
All the followers of those blogs have essentially the same profiles and their comments are about each others children (I cannot BELIEVE how BIG the TWINS are GETTING!) and what websites are best for finding gross recipes that use canned vegetables.
The other day I was flicking channels whilst eating but before watching a subtitled flick (because I am a cosmopolitan man of the world). I ended up on the Food Network. It was some show that I've seen before, fun to watch wherein they film the goings-on in a factory. There is something fascinating about those enormous machines, mindless, moving on their own, huge dull-silver contraptions repeating the same movements and producing masses of products. This show featured a segment on the delicious marshmallow Peeps. (Note: when one says "Peeps," they should say it like a baby chick in a falsetto voice; it's more fun that way.) Before I could watch my Spanish film, I had to scurry to the neighborhood CVS and buy several boxes of Peeps, both the bunny and chick varieties.
These days there are many colors of Peeps. Unlike the plain old yellow that I had to endure as a youngster, there are now blue, orange, green, gray, black, invisible, glass, rust, vomit, and blood colors.
I made a brood of Peeps pooping:
If Martha Stewart were smart, she would have me regularly featured doing a segment about CRAFTS FOR KIDS.
This is what I just heard as I came from the basement next door where I sometimes do my laundry. This is where the coin-operated washer and dryer are located. My landlord, a nice and gentle man, is also admittedly cheap. One day I was walking home and saw him hanging things to dry in the basement. Goddamn, he's cheaper than I thought, I thought. Fucking washing things in the basement basin. Later, I realized he has his own washer in our building! The cheapskate keeps that for himself! But there is no dryer, as I saw him hanging his gray, but-used-to-be-white jockeys on a clothes rack.
When I heard the man yelling at his child(ren?), I did the thing of forcing myself to pretend that I heard nothing and briskly locked the door next door and opened the one to my building.
I've looked at some of the other blogs that blogger.com offers. All you have to do is press the "next blog" button at the top of the page. So many of them are the same! Are they cutting and pasting the ABOUT ME part?
Basically they read:
I am a God-fearing and loving Christian woman who is sooooooooo lucky to have three wonderful children - Bradley Lou, Brianna Lynn, and Brittany Lee - even though they all have leukemia. I am happily married to my husband, Todd, who fucks me whenever he wants, and sometimes fingers my daughters! What are ya gonna do - he's a man! :) I home school the kids here in Whitesville, Kentucky, and belong to a rifle club! :-) Sarah Palin and Laura Bush are my heros [sic] and I collect Precious Moments figurines because they are soooooo cute!
All the followers of those blogs have essentially the same profiles and their comments are about each others children (I cannot BELIEVE how BIG the TWINS are GETTING!) and what websites are best for finding gross recipes that use canned vegetables.
The other day I was flicking channels whilst eating but before watching a subtitled flick (because I am a cosmopolitan man of the world). I ended up on the Food Network. It was some show that I've seen before, fun to watch wherein they film the goings-on in a factory. There is something fascinating about those enormous machines, mindless, moving on their own, huge dull-silver contraptions repeating the same movements and producing masses of products. This show featured a segment on the delicious marshmallow Peeps. (Note: when one says "Peeps," they should say it like a baby chick in a falsetto voice; it's more fun that way.) Before I could watch my Spanish film, I had to scurry to the neighborhood CVS and buy several boxes of Peeps, both the bunny and chick varieties.
These days there are many colors of Peeps. Unlike the plain old yellow that I had to endure as a youngster, there are now blue, orange, green, gray, black, invisible, glass, rust, vomit, and blood colors.
I made a brood of Peeps pooping:
If Martha Stewart were smart, she would have me regularly featured doing a segment about CRAFTS FOR KIDS.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Lunch Bunch
I'm not sure how and when it happened, but during their lunch period, a group of 5th graders come to my classroom to have their lunch. Actually, I think it began when I had asked a student who I worked with in small group last year to help organize my room. Okay, I'll be more honest: sometimes, there are some kids that organize my desk and room for me. I'm a mess. I'm sloppy. I lose things. Maybe it's ADD. Or ADHD. I tell people it's the state of being genius and that I'm busy with abstract concepts; who has time for straightening up and worrying about where I put files? Except, of course, when I need the paperwork. Too, when I am wanting the room straightened, I am a tyrant, bellowing, "FENG SHUI! FENG SHUI! I NEED EVERYTHING IN LINES! THE CORNERS MUST MATCH!" Two days later, the girls and boys who cleaned my desk say, "Um, Mr. Anonymister, didn't we just clean your desk for you?" To which I respond, "Someone broke in the classroom and messed everything up!" I always promise to follow up with filing a police report. The kids just shake their heads at me.
So the one student I had asked to help brought a friend to help organize. And then I think that kid brought a friend. And so on. Until eventually there has been about core group of about ten students, mostly 5th graders, who hang out at lunch. It's sweet. Sometimes they help organize things in the classroom. Sometimes we don't even talk at all because I'm busy working and dramatically hold my hand signifying that I have no time to talk. On those days, they have rap sessions with each other. Other times, if it's a smaller group of kids, we might talk candidly together. They might tell me about hating their mothers ("Yes, I know the feeling," I respond.) and fathers ("He be drinking too much beer with the neighbor."). Or, they might confide about the homeroom or specialist teachers that they loathe ("Yeah, her breaf be like a dumpster, and her armpits be nasty. And when she talk, she be spitting."). To these, I stifle my giggles, and lamely relate to having to respect my own boss.
What has touched me about this "lunch bunch," as a colleague calls them, is that they voluntarily hang there. I know they feel safe. I know it is a haven and that though sometimes they are there to work, always they can just congregate, relax and simply be. What has been remarkable about it to me at times is that the lunch bunch gathers even on days when the weather is beautiful and they have the opportunity to play sports at lunch time. Most of the boys love sports.
One of the boys who comes is a recent addition. He just transferred to the school around December. He is sophisticated, sometimes too much so, for an 11-year-old. He is a great dancer, full of energy, and quite funny. I have told him he talks too much. He also lacks a filter for his mouth. He is very much like me.
Today, I had him stapling some papers and he looked at another boy and exclaimed, "Oh no - BERT!"
After, he proceeded to laugh hysterically.
I looked at the boy he was referring to and, indeed, he resembles a Muppet.
Although I had always thought he looked more like a Sleestak.
Point is, this boy who made himself laugh has a mean streak. And I had to nip it. I had to tell him he could not make fun of anyone in my classroom. And that was going against my instinct because the shit was funny. I like to see when a person makes himself laugh
So the one student I had asked to help brought a friend to help organize. And then I think that kid brought a friend. And so on. Until eventually there has been about core group of about ten students, mostly 5th graders, who hang out at lunch. It's sweet. Sometimes they help organize things in the classroom. Sometimes we don't even talk at all because I'm busy working and dramatically hold my hand signifying that I have no time to talk. On those days, they have rap sessions with each other. Other times, if it's a smaller group of kids, we might talk candidly together. They might tell me about hating their mothers ("Yes, I know the feeling," I respond.) and fathers ("He be drinking too much beer with the neighbor."). Or, they might confide about the homeroom or specialist teachers that they loathe ("Yeah, her breaf be like a dumpster, and her armpits be nasty. And when she talk, she be spitting."). To these, I stifle my giggles, and lamely relate to having to respect my own boss.
What has touched me about this "lunch bunch," as a colleague calls them, is that they voluntarily hang there. I know they feel safe. I know it is a haven and that though sometimes they are there to work, always they can just congregate, relax and simply be. What has been remarkable about it to me at times is that the lunch bunch gathers even on days when the weather is beautiful and they have the opportunity to play sports at lunch time. Most of the boys love sports.
One of the boys who comes is a recent addition. He just transferred to the school around December. He is sophisticated, sometimes too much so, for an 11-year-old. He is a great dancer, full of energy, and quite funny. I have told him he talks too much. He also lacks a filter for his mouth. He is very much like me.
Today, I had him stapling some papers and he looked at another boy and exclaimed, "Oh no - BERT!"
After, he proceeded to laugh hysterically.
I looked at the boy he was referring to and, indeed, he resembles a Muppet.
Although I had always thought he looked more like a Sleestak.
Point is, this boy who made himself laugh has a mean streak. And I had to nip it. I had to tell him he could not make fun of anyone in my classroom. And that was going against my instinct because the shit was funny. I like to see when a person makes himself laugh
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Dragons
I'm using a different font today because I am fun.
During the snowstorms, I will admit that I watched TV. And somehow I stumbled onto RuPaul's Drag Race, the reality show in which contestants vie to be the next "Drag Queen Superstar!" Because, there are, SO many drag queens competing to be famous. In any case, I love the show. It's fascinating to me. I'm watching a subculture of the subculture that I'm in. I'll be candid: I get slightly uncomfortable. Here: I'll take it further: I get afraid. That's what's beneath my fascination. I simply don't understand it. I do not understand wanting to look like a woman, or a drag queen (I think there is a difference for some of them). I have had some friends who have done that on Halloween. I did have one friend, who I did heroin with, who was a drag queen performer. When we were fucked up, he suggested that he dress up as a woman, I put him on a leash, and we go sit on Santa's lap at Macy's for Xmas photos. But that's the extent of my experience with drag.
Now, I think to myself: can it really be called a "reality" show?
It's certainly a competition, but RuPaul is the monarch, and his/her word is final. When he sets the queens up for elimination at the end of the show, the tension mounts. The camera pans in on their pancake-makeup. You can see the fear in the queen's eyes, as if they're going to be thrown to crocodiles in a moat if they're eliminated. Then, to make matters worse, they have to "lip synch for your life." How sadistic, RuPaul, to make the queens do something that should be fun and free and frolicky in order to remain in the competition. What pressure! That's the part of the show I hate the most. I get so uncomfortable and embarrassed because one of those bitches is going to be sent packing.
When I discovered the show, I quickly called my sister.
"Oh man, you HAVE to watch RuPaul. Watch it, watch it."
She indulged me, as she generally does.
She texted during the show:
Ewwwww the fat one is fat!!
I texted back:
And fat, too.
Which begins the game that we play, which can go on for hours sometimes.
Her:
Thanks for saying And fat!
Me:
Thanks for thanking me.
Her:
Thanks for acknowledging that I said thanks!
Me:
I see you used an exclamation point!
Her:
Thanks for acknowledging the exclamation point!
Me:
Ur welcome.
Her:
Thanks for taking the time to say Ur welcome.
My sister is very mannerly. <-- the adverb modifies the verb
During the snowstorms, I will admit that I watched TV. And somehow I stumbled onto RuPaul's Drag Race, the reality show in which contestants vie to be the next "Drag Queen Superstar!" Because, there are, SO many drag queens competing to be famous. In any case, I love the show. It's fascinating to me. I'm watching a subculture of the subculture that I'm in. I'll be candid: I get slightly uncomfortable. Here: I'll take it further: I get afraid. That's what's beneath my fascination. I simply don't understand it. I do not understand wanting to look like a woman, or a drag queen (I think there is a difference for some of them). I have had some friends who have done that on Halloween. I did have one friend, who I did heroin with, who was a drag queen performer. When we were fucked up, he suggested that he dress up as a woman, I put him on a leash, and we go sit on Santa's lap at Macy's for Xmas photos. But that's the extent of my experience with drag.
Now, I think to myself: can it really be called a "reality" show?
It's certainly a competition, but RuPaul is the monarch, and his/her word is final. When he sets the queens up for elimination at the end of the show, the tension mounts. The camera pans in on their pancake-makeup. You can see the fear in the queen's eyes, as if they're going to be thrown to crocodiles in a moat if they're eliminated. Then, to make matters worse, they have to "lip synch for your life." How sadistic, RuPaul, to make the queens do something that should be fun and free and frolicky in order to remain in the competition. What pressure! That's the part of the show I hate the most. I get so uncomfortable and embarrassed because one of those bitches is going to be sent packing.
When I discovered the show, I quickly called my sister.
"Oh man, you HAVE to watch RuPaul. Watch it, watch it."
She indulged me, as she generally does.
She texted during the show:
Ewwwww the fat one is fat!!
I texted back:
And fat, too.
Which begins the game that we play, which can go on for hours sometimes.
Her:
Thanks for saying And fat!
Me:
Thanks for thanking me.
Her:
Thanks for acknowledging that I said thanks!
Me:
I see you used an exclamation point!
Her:
Thanks for acknowledging the exclamation point!
Me:
Ur welcome.
Her:
Thanks for taking the time to say Ur welcome.
My sister is very mannerly. <-- the adverb modifies the verb
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Fun in Cyberspace
Goodness gracious, more snow this week! And more snow days! It would be nice to have snow days in June when the weather is really hot and the school, especially the 6th graders, are smelly, and sweat is continually trickling down one's forehead and the side of one's torso, and one gets migraines from heat exhaustion. But all the snow days have come in February.
Sometimes I like to instigate in cyberspace. It is completely hysterical to me to see people get all riled up about "issues."
Issues.
Issues are tissues.
Complete strangers get enraged! Here's the thing: whenever I see someone write something completely outrageous online, I think they are just like me: they are pretending to be something they're not. Or maybe they really do think that, a little, but it's safe to write it because they do not have to own up to it.
This week there was an article about a model who went from a size 0 to a size 12. She whined about how she had counted calories obsessively and had an eating disorder because of the pressure to be thin because of the fashion industry.
Is this not inherent in the job description of fashion model? Do you not count calories, just like all of us should do who want to be relatively healthy? And should you not do a bit more than others because your fucking JOB is to be a coat hanger?
Below are some of the comments that I wrote that were spammed (please note that they are paraphrased since they became the property of the website on which I posted).
To begin:
she looked better as a size 0/1. i googled her pics and she is PORKIFIED now! and that's healthy? uh, no.
People angrily reacted to that posting.
They said, "How dare you?! BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH."
And then I giggled.
One woman wrote:
I would be SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO happy to be a size 12 once more. When I was married my wedding dress was a 12 for the upper body and tailored down to an 8 from the ribcage down. Well, gravity, three kids and 40 years has now made me a perfect 48-44-48 - my son says I'm not fat . . . I'm industrial strength. And all 8 of my grandmonsters say I'm "fluffy" and love to sit on what little lap I have. I wouldn't trade those hugs and "lap" moments for all the size 0's or 12's in the world. Love who you are, accept what you are, and s***w the ones who criticize you
I replied:
Oh my God, you sound disgusting. You probably stink, missing those places that need awashin'. Stop rationalizing how gross you feel, honey. Start vomiting and feel better about yourself again.
Again, I was accused of being mean before the posting was spammed to death and removed.
Another:
clothes just look better on skinny people. it's true. [and i will stand behind that comment]
To which someone responded:
too bad your fat!!
And to which I replied:
what about my fat?! why are you talking about it? or did you use the possessive "your" when you meant to use the contraction "you're"? has all that liverwurst clogged your brain? i'm sorry, chubbles.
I will say that there were some readers who were clicking on the "I LIKE" button for my comments, which was reassuring.
Next, there was the story of the killer whale in Florida who killed one of the trainers. This is the third person the whale has killed.
This story is perfect for cheeky comments.
I wasn't the only one who thought this, by the way.
But people were ENRAGED by the saucy, brassy comments people were writing! "How dare you be so callous to this woman's family?! She was just murdered by a whale!" Um, look, if the woman's family was reading the comments board of the Internet news story, did they really give that much of a shit about her? And since when is it considered "murder" when an animal kills a person? The absurdity of these comments got my juices flowing, my balls tingling, my tummy fluttering.
For this story, I mostly responded to others' comments. Most of my comments were - again - removed, but here are a few.
One person wrote:
It is Ironic that if a dog bites someone it gets euthanized, but if a killer whale kills 3 people, they will still use them in the shows at Seaworld...
I replied:
this is because killer whales have the name "killer," hence it is their birth right. dogs DO NOT HAVE THIS RIGHT! now, if we petition to have some dogs' names changed to "killer dogs," it will be okay when they kill, and we won't have to euthanize them. simple solution!
Another person, getting so frustrated, by the lack of earnestness, posted:
Perhaps we should give Tillikum [the whale's name] the home address of some of the ignorant commentors here. Being flippant and trying to make stupid pathetic jokes about someone who has died seems to be the only thing some of you ridiculous folks have to do with your lives.
I responded:
Okay, that's just impractical. How is Tillikum going to come to our homes?! He is way too big to come down some of the side streets in my neighborhood. And he certainly wouldn't be able to flop up the steps of my apartment building! Please, if you have a suggestion, make it a practical one. Do not waste Tillikum's time.
At this point, I was having a lot of fun. Full of mirth.
Next, someone wrote:
I don't assume this whale jumped up and down and asking "pick me oh pick me...I want to be in captivity! It is terrible what happened to this woman and she may rest in piece. I am hoping that SeaWorld and all the rest of these types of corporations realize that animals don't belong in captivity!!! Orca's are especially unpredictable, it is just another failure of human naivness to not realize that. I went on a whale watch in Canada and Alaska and it was so much better to watch them in the wild from FAR AWAY, then it would be to see them perform for money. R.I.P. Dawn.
My response:
Actually, in Tillikum's autobiography, he wrote, "One day I saw people on a boat looking for whales to be in captivity. I decided to jump up and down, which was kind of difficult because I had lent my trampoline to my cousin Killadawn, and call, 'Pick me, oh pick me...I want to be in captivity!"
So, rychuswun55, please get your facts straight.
After posting that, I felt happy to be alive.
I posted this, as well:
whales are extremely possessive (and, little known fact, slightly ashamed) of their black and white markings. the trainer's black and white wetsuit most likely incited what is known as "whale fury." whale fury is the state of envy when another mammal looks curvier in black and white. this orca could not help himself.
A couple of my friends know that I engage in this activity, posting fucked-up comments for my own amusement. They say that I need to find something else to do with my time, that I have too much time on my hands and that I need to be creative. They are jealous and do not see that I AM being creative. More importantly, I am making myself happy.
That is self-love.
Sometimes I like to instigate in cyberspace. It is completely hysterical to me to see people get all riled up about "issues."
Issues.
Issues are tissues.
Complete strangers get enraged! Here's the thing: whenever I see someone write something completely outrageous online, I think they are just like me: they are pretending to be something they're not. Or maybe they really do think that, a little, but it's safe to write it because they do not have to own up to it.
This week there was an article about a model who went from a size 0 to a size 12. She whined about how she had counted calories obsessively and had an eating disorder because of the pressure to be thin because of the fashion industry.
Is this not inherent in the job description of fashion model? Do you not count calories, just like all of us should do who want to be relatively healthy? And should you not do a bit more than others because your fucking JOB is to be a coat hanger?
Below are some of the comments that I wrote that were spammed (please note that they are paraphrased since they became the property of the website on which I posted).
To begin:
she looked better as a size 0/1. i googled her pics and she is PORKIFIED now! and that's healthy? uh, no.
americans are so fat...and now that she just wants to eat all the time, she bellyaches - and she's now got quite a belly to do this - about her past obsession with being skinny...when her current obsession is being slovenly. ugh! grossness!
People angrily reacted to that posting.
They said, "How dare you?! BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH."
And then I giggled.
One woman wrote:
I would be SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO happy to be a size 12 once more. When I was married my wedding dress was a 12 for the upper body and tailored down to an 8 from the ribcage down. Well, gravity, three kids and 40 years has now made me a perfect 48-44-48 - my son says I'm not fat . . . I'm industrial strength. And all 8 of my grandmonsters say I'm "fluffy" and love to sit on what little lap I have. I wouldn't trade those hugs and "lap" moments for all the size 0's or 12's in the world. Love who you are, accept what you are, and s***w the ones who criticize you
I replied:
Oh my God, you sound disgusting. You probably stink, missing those places that need awashin'. Stop rationalizing how gross you feel, honey. Start vomiting and feel better about yourself again.
Again, I was accused of being mean before the posting was spammed to death and removed.
Another:
clothes just look better on skinny people. it's true. [and i will stand behind that comment]
To which someone responded:
too bad your fat!!
And to which I replied:
what about my fat?! why are you talking about it? or did you use the possessive "your" when you meant to use the contraction "you're"? has all that liverwurst clogged your brain? i'm sorry, chubbles.
I will say that there were some readers who were clicking on the "I LIKE" button for my comments, which was reassuring.
Next, there was the story of the killer whale in Florida who killed one of the trainers. This is the third person the whale has killed.
This story is perfect for cheeky comments.
I wasn't the only one who thought this, by the way.
But people were ENRAGED by the saucy, brassy comments people were writing! "How dare you be so callous to this woman's family?! She was just murdered by a whale!" Um, look, if the woman's family was reading the comments board of the Internet news story, did they really give that much of a shit about her? And since when is it considered "murder" when an animal kills a person? The absurdity of these comments got my juices flowing, my balls tingling, my tummy fluttering.
For this story, I mostly responded to others' comments. Most of my comments were - again - removed, but here are a few.
One person wrote:
It is Ironic that if a dog bites someone it gets euthanized, but if a killer whale kills 3 people, they will still use them in the shows at Seaworld...
I replied:
this is because killer whales have the name "killer," hence it is their birth right. dogs DO NOT HAVE THIS RIGHT! now, if we petition to have some dogs' names changed to "killer dogs," it will be okay when they kill, and we won't have to euthanize them. simple solution!
Another person, getting so frustrated, by the lack of earnestness, posted:
Perhaps we should give Tillikum [the whale's name] the home address of some of the ignorant commentors here. Being flippant and trying to make stupid pathetic jokes about someone who has died seems to be the only thing some of you ridiculous folks have to do with your lives.
I responded:
Okay, that's just impractical. How is Tillikum going to come to our homes?! He is way too big to come down some of the side streets in my neighborhood. And he certainly wouldn't be able to flop up the steps of my apartment building! Please, if you have a suggestion, make it a practical one. Do not waste Tillikum's time.
At this point, I was having a lot of fun. Full of mirth.
Next, someone wrote:
I don't assume this whale jumped up and down and asking "pick me oh pick me...I want to be in captivity! It is terrible what happened to this woman and she may rest in piece. I am hoping that SeaWorld and all the rest of these types of corporations realize that animals don't belong in captivity!!! Orca's are especially unpredictable, it is just another failure of human naivness to not realize that. I went on a whale watch in Canada and Alaska and it was so much better to watch them in the wild from FAR AWAY, then it would be to see them perform for money. R.I.P. Dawn.
My response:
Actually, in Tillikum's autobiography, he wrote, "One day I saw people on a boat looking for whales to be in captivity. I decided to jump up and down, which was kind of difficult because I had lent my trampoline to my cousin Killadawn, and call, 'Pick me, oh pick me...I want to be in captivity!"
So, rychuswun55, please get your facts straight.
After posting that, I felt happy to be alive.
I posted this, as well:
whales are extremely possessive (and, little known fact, slightly ashamed) of their black and white markings. the trainer's black and white wetsuit most likely incited what is known as "whale fury." whale fury is the state of envy when another mammal looks curvier in black and white. this orca could not help himself.
A couple of my friends know that I engage in this activity, posting fucked-up comments for my own amusement. They say that I need to find something else to do with my time, that I have too much time on my hands and that I need to be creative. They are jealous and do not see that I AM being creative. More importantly, I am making myself happy.
That is self-love.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Don't Tell Me I Don't Know What War is Like
Don't tell me that I don't know what war is like. Another snow day because of an anticipated storm. Okay. So let's go to breakfast this morning. The restaurant is four blocks away. Along the way are heaps and smushed wet piles of dog shit that have been melting from the masses of snow mounds. They are like land mines. I have to keep my eyes downward, mind focused to avoid stepping and slip sliding away into filth, using cat-like reflexes to jump and step away from the brown smears of negligent dog owners' messy messes.
Evidence of the filth everywhere! I think the mayor is shitting on the ground as well, and blaming the dogs of the city for his nasty dirty habit. I am offering a reward for anyone who captures the mayor on film defecating on the ground and/or in the snow. Extra money for anyone who posts it on YouTube.
Evidence of the filth everywhere! I think the mayor is shitting on the ground as well, and blaming the dogs of the city for his nasty dirty habit. I am offering a reward for anyone who captures the mayor on film defecating on the ground and/or in the snow. Extra money for anyone who posts it on YouTube.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Barber Shop
Last night I went to my acupuncturist's and had scraping done.
Scraping.
Have a gander:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4FFmGPPW3w
It's not so painful, really. Maybe a little because I have - this is gross, but I could feel them there - bubbles of tension under my skin. It was like he was popping bubbles (I do not like holes, the Suirnam toad is disgusting, what is its purpose?), blisters of stress, under my skin. Jesus, it's making me feel sick typing that.
I frequently look at the world from other people's point of view and I wondered what was dancing through his mind whilst scraping. Was he just focused on the job? Did he notice the love handles that have swelled since I ate eighty-eight pounds of cookies at Xmas? He works intimately with all types of people's bodies. Does he ever feel revolted? Does he judge? Or simply observe?
But most importantly, I haven't had my upper back waxed in months.
When I hit my late 20s, the hair started growing on my upper back. It crawls around the neck, tufts around the shoulders. I've had, since late teenagehood, the lower back hair, which I like - very Tony Danza on Who's the Boss. Sexy. But upper back hair is middle-aged-menitis. It means something is out of control. Jesus, don't I have discipline of my body? This is a heinous situation for someone with control issues.
Which got me thinking about hair and my old barber.
I haven't seen my old barber in more than a year and a half. I shall keep his name anonymous, of course, but it is one of the traditional Italian names from the list below:
1. Rocco
2. Rocky
3. Rocking
4. Anthony (pronounced Ant-knee)
5. Sal
6. Sausage
7. Rigitoni
8. Boyardee
9. Pesto
10. Joey
You can decide whatever you want for this story.
Anyway, I had to stop going to this barber because we would get fucked-up together. Sometimes we would close the shop down. I would stumble out of there, drunk and high, trying to remember where I had parked my car, eyes-crossing. One time I drove about 8 blocks and pulled over because I realized I was too fucked up to drive. How responsible I was! So I staggered around the city until my eyes uncrossed and I could see just one of everything.
The barber was a character. He was a sight to behold. Tooth missing in the front, the rest of his teeth looking yellowish brown, like a paste of brown sugar had been applied to his gums. His eyes, brown, were somewhat slitted because he was perpetually stoned on marijuana. And yet I felt sexually attracted to him sometimes.
The shop, which he had inherited from his uncle, smelled perpetually of stale pot smoke. And dogs. He had one large dog and one medium dog who lied on the floor; they were gentle and well-behaved. He blasted music. It vacillated between hard rock and Madonna or Mariah Carey, depending on the customers in the shop.
He was hypermasculine and I could see that he frightened many of his customers, mostly the professional heterosexual men. They really did not know he was gay. I think the old Italians in the neighborhood - and there were definitely men from the the Mafia - probably surmised that he was gay and just accepted it because "Why the fuck not?" He would tell stories, laugh, and then explode with jumping on the floor and yelling, "BAM!" These stories and actions tickled me, particularly when I would see the startled reactions of the other customers.
There was a large window into the shop with a view of the whole street. He and I never had sex, never kissed, though there was flirting. One time, and I do not remember what I was on other than I felt happy and warm, he asked to see my penis. He blocked the view of the window while I pulled it out of my pants fly. "Yours looks just like mine," he said, and then pulled his out. He was right. I was glad to see that he had a nice penis. Aesthetics are so important.
The thing I liked about him was that he was very generous with whatever he had. If someone had paid him with Vicoden, he was happy to give me a few. And I liked that there was no pretense in asking me for something. At the time, I constantly had Valium on me. He never complained about neck pain or stress. He simply asked me, "Do you have anything?" Which I did, and always shared, and for which he was always grateful. He was always delighted to give me a few joints for free after cutting my hair and after smoking one with me and after drinking a few beers as well. I remember selling him some Oxys when I was doing that to support my habit. It made him feel happy. He liked that feeling, he said. No pretense, that man.
There was a young man in the neighborhood who he was in love with. This creepy kid, in his early 20s, had stolen from him. He was some kind of opiate addict, perhaps heroin. I remember having a large supply of Percocet on me and being afraid that the kid was going to steal it from me somehow. I remember arguing with the kid about the price per milligram in selling the shit. I know that I stumbled out the shop laughing that day and some customer reached out his arm to catch me, asking if I'd be alright to drive. Well, yeah, I was just high on opiates, hello!
Scraping.
Have a gander:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4FFmGPPW3w
It's not so painful, really. Maybe a little because I have - this is gross, but I could feel them there - bubbles of tension under my skin. It was like he was popping bubbles (I do not like holes, the Suirnam toad is disgusting, what is its purpose?), blisters of stress, under my skin. Jesus, it's making me feel sick typing that.
I frequently look at the world from other people's point of view and I wondered what was dancing through his mind whilst scraping. Was he just focused on the job? Did he notice the love handles that have swelled since I ate eighty-eight pounds of cookies at Xmas? He works intimately with all types of people's bodies. Does he ever feel revolted? Does he judge? Or simply observe?
But most importantly, I haven't had my upper back waxed in months.
When I hit my late 20s, the hair started growing on my upper back. It crawls around the neck, tufts around the shoulders. I've had, since late teenagehood, the lower back hair, which I like - very Tony Danza on Who's the Boss. Sexy. But upper back hair is middle-aged-menitis. It means something is out of control. Jesus, don't I have discipline of my body? This is a heinous situation for someone with control issues.
Which got me thinking about hair and my old barber.
I haven't seen my old barber in more than a year and a half. I shall keep his name anonymous, of course, but it is one of the traditional Italian names from the list below:
1. Rocco
2. Rocky
3. Rocking
4. Anthony (pronounced Ant-knee)
5. Sal
6. Sausage
7. Rigitoni
8. Boyardee
9. Pesto
10. Joey
You can decide whatever you want for this story.
Anyway, I had to stop going to this barber because we would get fucked-up together. Sometimes we would close the shop down. I would stumble out of there, drunk and high, trying to remember where I had parked my car, eyes-crossing. One time I drove about 8 blocks and pulled over because I realized I was too fucked up to drive. How responsible I was! So I staggered around the city until my eyes uncrossed and I could see just one of everything.
The barber was a character. He was a sight to behold. Tooth missing in the front, the rest of his teeth looking yellowish brown, like a paste of brown sugar had been applied to his gums. His eyes, brown, were somewhat slitted because he was perpetually stoned on marijuana. And yet I felt sexually attracted to him sometimes.
The shop, which he had inherited from his uncle, smelled perpetually of stale pot smoke. And dogs. He had one large dog and one medium dog who lied on the floor; they were gentle and well-behaved. He blasted music. It vacillated between hard rock and Madonna or Mariah Carey, depending on the customers in the shop.
He was hypermasculine and I could see that he frightened many of his customers, mostly the professional heterosexual men. They really did not know he was gay. I think the old Italians in the neighborhood - and there were definitely men from the the Mafia - probably surmised that he was gay and just accepted it because "Why the fuck not?" He would tell stories, laugh, and then explode with jumping on the floor and yelling, "BAM!" These stories and actions tickled me, particularly when I would see the startled reactions of the other customers.
There was a large window into the shop with a view of the whole street. He and I never had sex, never kissed, though there was flirting. One time, and I do not remember what I was on other than I felt happy and warm, he asked to see my penis. He blocked the view of the window while I pulled it out of my pants fly. "Yours looks just like mine," he said, and then pulled his out. He was right. I was glad to see that he had a nice penis. Aesthetics are so important.
The thing I liked about him was that he was very generous with whatever he had. If someone had paid him with Vicoden, he was happy to give me a few. And I liked that there was no pretense in asking me for something. At the time, I constantly had Valium on me. He never complained about neck pain or stress. He simply asked me, "Do you have anything?" Which I did, and always shared, and for which he was always grateful. He was always delighted to give me a few joints for free after cutting my hair and after smoking one with me and after drinking a few beers as well. I remember selling him some Oxys when I was doing that to support my habit. It made him feel happy. He liked that feeling, he said. No pretense, that man.
There was a young man in the neighborhood who he was in love with. This creepy kid, in his early 20s, had stolen from him. He was some kind of opiate addict, perhaps heroin. I remember having a large supply of Percocet on me and being afraid that the kid was going to steal it from me somehow. I remember arguing with the kid about the price per milligram in selling the shit. I know that I stumbled out the shop laughing that day and some customer reached out his arm to catch me, asking if I'd be alright to drive. Well, yeah, I was just high on opiates, hello!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Momo and Acupuncture
I must post simply to include this photograph:
It is a marmoset. Its name (don't know the gender) is Momo. I was at my acupuncturist's on Friday and saw the photograph in a magazine and almost died from happiness. I want to eat it (on a roll with spicy brown mustard), it's so cute. I may not like Broadway plays, but little furry animals make me practically squeal. Look at its hair! Look how patiently it sits for the camera! What a good marmoset!
I was reading an article about...I think it was animals' memories. Or maybe it was about animals communicating with sign language? Except there was a bird in the article, so I think it had something to do with learning and memory. What stood out for me about the marmoset was the fact that it lacks "impulse control," which may prevent it from evolving; I can relate to that.
I love my acupuncturist. He is kind and gentle and possesses a good sense of humor; in other words, he thinks I'm funny. He's a nice American Jewish man. This is important to me - the fact that he's a native English speaker. I need to explain every nuance of my anxiety so that he can put the needles in the right place and get that qi flowing where it needs to. I have a friend who was bragging that she received acupuncture for only $35/hour in Chinatown. Meanwhile, she and the acupuncturist couldn't understand each other. Maybe he was treating her for boils or a swollen vulva when she had insomnia. In addition, she said that the office she went to was filthy. A cockroach crawled across the ceiling while she was lying there with needles protruding from her forehead and ears. Fuck that. I would scream like a girl.
It is a marmoset. Its name (don't know the gender) is Momo. I was at my acupuncturist's on Friday and saw the photograph in a magazine and almost died from happiness. I want to eat it (on a roll with spicy brown mustard), it's so cute. I may not like Broadway plays, but little furry animals make me practically squeal. Look at its hair! Look how patiently it sits for the camera! What a good marmoset!
I was reading an article about...I think it was animals' memories. Or maybe it was about animals communicating with sign language? Except there was a bird in the article, so I think it had something to do with learning and memory. What stood out for me about the marmoset was the fact that it lacks "impulse control," which may prevent it from evolving; I can relate to that.
I love my acupuncturist. He is kind and gentle and possesses a good sense of humor; in other words, he thinks I'm funny. He's a nice American Jewish man. This is important to me - the fact that he's a native English speaker. I need to explain every nuance of my anxiety so that he can put the needles in the right place and get that qi flowing where it needs to. I have a friend who was bragging that she received acupuncture for only $35/hour in Chinatown. Meanwhile, she and the acupuncturist couldn't understand each other. Maybe he was treating her for boils or a swollen vulva when she had insomnia. In addition, she said that the office she went to was filthy. A cockroach crawled across the ceiling while she was lying there with needles protruding from her forehead and ears. Fuck that. I would scream like a girl.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Snow and Cats and Sleep and Solving Problems
The snow has just pummeled the area. I like saying that - pummeled. As I was walking through it last night, I thought of blockbuster movies and thought, "this totally qualifies as a natural disaster." Huge lumps of snow on the sidewalks (what's underneath them?!). Trees hanging low like old mens' balls, heavy with snow. And the occasional stupid lone vehicle dangerously sliding down the street.
Today is different. The aftermath is always depressing to me. I put my head back on the sofa, hoping the tortoise shell cat wouldn't slash my cheek (she's quite mercurial), and looked up at the branches holding the snow against the bright blue sky. They looked like they were holding light fluffy cotton. The brightness of the sky, and the sunshine, sadden me. Nature is making me crazy, mixing messages: Look, it's okay to come out and wander, the sun is shining and the sky is blue. But this is not true! We're actually trapped! If I look down from my apartment, I see that cars are literally surrounded, blocked in by feet of snow. The street has feet of snow too. Mixed messages always make me crazy.
I live in an old brownstone (sometimes I tell people I live in an old gallstone). I like this neighborhood; it's my favorite in this city. When I was in college and graduate school, I lived in this neighborhood; the best memories in my life happened here.
Anyway, I like my apartment. I like the large windows that allow gracious amounts of bright light to bask; the cats like to lay in these swatches - pure bliss for them. I like the crown molding in my bedroom - I like its light blue color. I like the super high ceilings of these old houses. I like my garbage disposal and dishwasher. I like the old black and white tiles in the bathroom. My apartment often gives me a warm feeling.
However, to use the bathroom, one must go through the bedroom. Get that? The bathroom is not separate. So, when I moved in, I put the kitty litter box, which is shaped like a dome, in the bathroom.
It just seemed like the right thing to do. I poop in the bathroom, so the cats should as well.
After living here for several months, I realized I was suffering from insomnia. I could not understand why. During the summer and fall months, I would daily walk a good amount, in addition to practicing yoga or Pilates several days a week. I have a caffeine cut-off time. I was working. I was fucking tired at the end of the day. Yes, I have a tendency to experience anxiety, but this was ridiculous. Why could I not sleep?
Then one day, in my classroom, the words came to me like a warm breeze: "The cats."
It was a revelation. Because I think myself so goddamned smart, whenever something obvious hits me, it is coupled with embarrassment.
The cats kept me up all night. Usually, when I got into bed at night, I felt good. After reflecting on my day and all the wonderful things that I did for people, I would read for a bit until I became so sleepy that my hands dropped the book and/or my eyes crossed. The three cats would snuggle up and look just so cute that I would feel gratitude for being alive and having a bed with three magnificent sweet creatures who felt safe enough to be cozy next to me.
I'm not sure when I would first wake up. The tortoise shell cat liked to lie above me, wrapped around my head like a fat tumor. This was sweet, I thought. In addition, I felt scared to move her because, as I have stated, she is mercurial and might slash my face.
The orange cat, too, has no boundaries. He liked to lie on my neck. Had I been able to keep them still, between the two of them I could have kept toasty warm outside during the winter. In any case, I found it difficult to breathe because of the cat on my neck. However, I thought of how lucky I was to have the cats feel safe enough to lie so close to me. Plus, they seemed so comfortable, and I didn't want to disturb them considering they had only slept about 20 hours that day.
Somehow, I would get back to sleep, only to be awakened by a scratching sound and the smell of hot carnivorous feces at some point, usually around 3 or 4 a.m. Cats have the instinct to cover their shit, and my cats certainly try to do this. However, perhaps because of the dome shape of their kitty litter box, they scratch everything but the kitty litter to cover their shit. Not one of the three of the cats can seem to figure out how to cover their shit. It is astounding to me. However, they will spend hours attempting to do this until I do it for them. They will scratch the inside plastic, the outside plastic, the tile floor, the steps of the dome, and probably every square inch of the litter box except for where their shit lies. At this point I would have to get up and cover it for them, stifling my gags.
Perhaps feeling lighter because of his recent bowel movement, the orange cat would then get the crazies. This is the time of night when the cats want to run around meowing and howling and running up walls, ears twitching, fur getting fat like their heads. They think this is fun. All of them like to get involved. And the orange cat's claws are so long, he sounds like he is wearing cha cha heels on the hardwood floors. I knew when he was about to pounce on someone or something because I could hear him speed up:
cha cha cha cha cha cha cha cha chachahchachachachacha
The tortoise shell cat, on the other hand, is the oldest, and I think she has arthritis. So she hobbles. She limps. She sounds like a pirate with a wooden leg when she walks. Hobbley hobbling hobbles.
And the shrill shreiks when one of them attacked another! It was simply blood curdling.
I would scream at them at some point, tell them I hated them, tell them to shut up, tell them they were selfish cats. This was not relaxing either, and then I would lie awake feeling guilty about the mean things I had said to the cats.
When the alarm buzzed the next morning and I felt hungover, the cats meowed happily and seemed to smile "Good morning!" to me. So I had amnesia about the long night. It was cloudy.
So when I realized it was the cats keeping me awake, that was a revelation.
I put the litter box in the living room as an experiment. And, at bedtime, after the fights, and chasing the gray one under the bed, and the tortoise shell one in the corner, and getting scratched by the orange one on the bed because he didn't want to leave the bedroom, I shut the door.
The litter box is in a place between the living room and kitchen. Because of the dome, it doesn't really smell. I clean it out daily. And when they shit, I have to be the one to cover it, anyway. I sleep a lot better now.
Today is different. The aftermath is always depressing to me. I put my head back on the sofa, hoping the tortoise shell cat wouldn't slash my cheek (she's quite mercurial), and looked up at the branches holding the snow against the bright blue sky. They looked like they were holding light fluffy cotton. The brightness of the sky, and the sunshine, sadden me. Nature is making me crazy, mixing messages: Look, it's okay to come out and wander, the sun is shining and the sky is blue. But this is not true! We're actually trapped! If I look down from my apartment, I see that cars are literally surrounded, blocked in by feet of snow. The street has feet of snow too. Mixed messages always make me crazy.
I live in an old brownstone (sometimes I tell people I live in an old gallstone). I like this neighborhood; it's my favorite in this city. When I was in college and graduate school, I lived in this neighborhood; the best memories in my life happened here.
Anyway, I like my apartment. I like the large windows that allow gracious amounts of bright light to bask; the cats like to lay in these swatches - pure bliss for them. I like the crown molding in my bedroom - I like its light blue color. I like the super high ceilings of these old houses. I like my garbage disposal and dishwasher. I like the old black and white tiles in the bathroom. My apartment often gives me a warm feeling.
However, to use the bathroom, one must go through the bedroom. Get that? The bathroom is not separate. So, when I moved in, I put the kitty litter box, which is shaped like a dome, in the bathroom.
It just seemed like the right thing to do. I poop in the bathroom, so the cats should as well.After living here for several months, I realized I was suffering from insomnia. I could not understand why. During the summer and fall months, I would daily walk a good amount, in addition to practicing yoga or Pilates several days a week. I have a caffeine cut-off time. I was working. I was fucking tired at the end of the day. Yes, I have a tendency to experience anxiety, but this was ridiculous. Why could I not sleep?
Then one day, in my classroom, the words came to me like a warm breeze: "The cats."
It was a revelation. Because I think myself so goddamned smart, whenever something obvious hits me, it is coupled with embarrassment.
The cats kept me up all night. Usually, when I got into bed at night, I felt good. After reflecting on my day and all the wonderful things that I did for people, I would read for a bit until I became so sleepy that my hands dropped the book and/or my eyes crossed. The three cats would snuggle up and look just so cute that I would feel gratitude for being alive and having a bed with three magnificent sweet creatures who felt safe enough to be cozy next to me.
I'm not sure when I would first wake up. The tortoise shell cat liked to lie above me, wrapped around my head like a fat tumor. This was sweet, I thought. In addition, I felt scared to move her because, as I have stated, she is mercurial and might slash my face.
The orange cat, too, has no boundaries. He liked to lie on my neck. Had I been able to keep them still, between the two of them I could have kept toasty warm outside during the winter. In any case, I found it difficult to breathe because of the cat on my neck. However, I thought of how lucky I was to have the cats feel safe enough to lie so close to me. Plus, they seemed so comfortable, and I didn't want to disturb them considering they had only slept about 20 hours that day.
Somehow, I would get back to sleep, only to be awakened by a scratching sound and the smell of hot carnivorous feces at some point, usually around 3 or 4 a.m. Cats have the instinct to cover their shit, and my cats certainly try to do this. However, perhaps because of the dome shape of their kitty litter box, they scratch everything but the kitty litter to cover their shit. Not one of the three of the cats can seem to figure out how to cover their shit. It is astounding to me. However, they will spend hours attempting to do this until I do it for them. They will scratch the inside plastic, the outside plastic, the tile floor, the steps of the dome, and probably every square inch of the litter box except for where their shit lies. At this point I would have to get up and cover it for them, stifling my gags.
Perhaps feeling lighter because of his recent bowel movement, the orange cat would then get the crazies. This is the time of night when the cats want to run around meowing and howling and running up walls, ears twitching, fur getting fat like their heads. They think this is fun. All of them like to get involved. And the orange cat's claws are so long, he sounds like he is wearing cha cha heels on the hardwood floors. I knew when he was about to pounce on someone or something because I could hear him speed up:
cha cha cha cha cha cha cha cha chachahchachachachacha
The tortoise shell cat, on the other hand, is the oldest, and I think she has arthritis. So she hobbles. She limps. She sounds like a pirate with a wooden leg when she walks. Hobbley hobbling hobbles.
And the shrill shreiks when one of them attacked another! It was simply blood curdling.
I would scream at them at some point, tell them I hated them, tell them to shut up, tell them they were selfish cats. This was not relaxing either, and then I would lie awake feeling guilty about the mean things I had said to the cats.
When the alarm buzzed the next morning and I felt hungover, the cats meowed happily and seemed to smile "Good morning!" to me. So I had amnesia about the long night. It was cloudy.
So when I realized it was the cats keeping me awake, that was a revelation.
I put the litter box in the living room as an experiment. And, at bedtime, after the fights, and chasing the gray one under the bed, and the tortoise shell one in the corner, and getting scratched by the orange one on the bed because he didn't want to leave the bedroom, I shut the door.
The litter box is in a place between the living room and kitchen. Because of the dome, it doesn't really smell. I clean it out daily. And when they shit, I have to be the one to cover it, anyway. I sleep a lot better now.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Accolades and Alcoholics
Oscar nominations were announced this past week. As if it's in our DNA, it seems that gay men get incredibly excited about the Academy Awards year after year. I know that I do, and I'm not into Judy, Barbra, Cher, or Broadway shows in the least. I don't understand it; it's not as if I'm the one getting nominated, or even mentioned in the pool of possible nominees. Yet when pictures are mentioned, and especially performances, starting in September of every year as generating "Oscar buzz," my eyes zero in and my mind makes a mental note of that film or person come Oscar time. Another odd thing about this is that I usually do not even watch the Academy Awards; they're boring. Like I said, I'm not fucking nominated, so why bother?
Yet it seems like it is the ultimate accolade, is it not? Bigger than the Pulitzer, more esteemed than the Nobel. It seems like it says, "I am worthy, I am lovable, I have made it. I am in the canon of history as being loved and talented." No wonder Sally Field creamed her panties and cried something like "you really like me."
Is there a psychology to this with gay men? We seem to like movies so much (I am generalizing, yes, and I like to do that sometimes). I know that I admire the shit out of good actors (for instance, the cast of LOST - amazingly talented). Is it that they are there creating and I am admiring them? Do I want to be admired? (Yes.) Do I want to create to create or just to be admired for creating? I love good writing and music as well, but nothing seems as admirable as good acting. Is it that they get to be someone else, whilst (<-- who doesn't like to say "whilst" every once in a while?) we gay men have to be...gay. We have had to endure being told that we are bad and gross and weird and strange while having shining lights that burn burn burn and then need extinguishing if one isn't savvy or graced enough to find the correct channel. Everything requires so much work.
My father's father, and his father, were alcoholics. I think I come from a long line of them. My father never called his father "Dad," or "Daddy," or anything other than his first name. This is so they could be buddies when they went into bars. My father began drinking alcohol when he was 10. He went to whorehouses with his father when he was 13. My grandfather had a wet brain. He died in his early 50s when I was 11-years-old. He was skinny, with black hair and blue eyes, like my father. His hair was always slicked back with pomade. I do not remember a smell other than alcohol on him. When I was a child, my father took me to his apartment a few times. He would lie on a sofa with his roommate, his brother-in-law, another alcoholic, with the blinds drawn and a black and white television on. Both men kept buckets next to the couches for hocking phlegm. The bucket on my grandfather's was at least 3 inches full of saliva and phlegm. They would drink, smoke Chesterfields, and hock phlegm. That was my grandfather. When he was 15, my father was riding with his father on the El during rush hour. My grandfather was getting off the stop before my father. As the doors of the El were about to open, he raised his leg like a dog about to piss on a tree, farted wet and loud, and said, "That's for all you motherfuckers. Have a good day." Then he left my father to stand there red-faced and wanting to kill himself until he got off on the next stop. Because they were Catholic, my father's parents never divorced. They simply did not live together after my grandfather moved out when my father was a boy. My grandfather had his apartments. My parents, when they were teenagers in the 1960s, partying, smoking pot, drinking, and doing whatever else, used to hang out at my grandfather's apartment with their friends and get fucked up. My grandfather got possessive of his apartment one day and raged on the kids, screaming, "This is my fucking pad!" My father went on to have six children but never had a father of his own. I feel sad about that.
Yet it seems like it is the ultimate accolade, is it not? Bigger than the Pulitzer, more esteemed than the Nobel. It seems like it says, "I am worthy, I am lovable, I have made it. I am in the canon of history as being loved and talented." No wonder Sally Field creamed her panties and cried something like "you really like me."
Is there a psychology to this with gay men? We seem to like movies so much (I am generalizing, yes, and I like to do that sometimes). I know that I admire the shit out of good actors (for instance, the cast of LOST - amazingly talented). Is it that they are there creating and I am admiring them? Do I want to be admired? (Yes.) Do I want to create to create or just to be admired for creating? I love good writing and music as well, but nothing seems as admirable as good acting. Is it that they get to be someone else, whilst (<-- who doesn't like to say "whilst" every once in a while?) we gay men have to be...gay. We have had to endure being told that we are bad and gross and weird and strange while having shining lights that burn burn burn and then need extinguishing if one isn't savvy or graced enough to find the correct channel. Everything requires so much work.
My father's father, and his father, were alcoholics. I think I come from a long line of them. My father never called his father "Dad," or "Daddy," or anything other than his first name. This is so they could be buddies when they went into bars. My father began drinking alcohol when he was 10. He went to whorehouses with his father when he was 13. My grandfather had a wet brain. He died in his early 50s when I was 11-years-old. He was skinny, with black hair and blue eyes, like my father. His hair was always slicked back with pomade. I do not remember a smell other than alcohol on him. When I was a child, my father took me to his apartment a few times. He would lie on a sofa with his roommate, his brother-in-law, another alcoholic, with the blinds drawn and a black and white television on. Both men kept buckets next to the couches for hocking phlegm. The bucket on my grandfather's was at least 3 inches full of saliva and phlegm. They would drink, smoke Chesterfields, and hock phlegm. That was my grandfather. When he was 15, my father was riding with his father on the El during rush hour. My grandfather was getting off the stop before my father. As the doors of the El were about to open, he raised his leg like a dog about to piss on a tree, farted wet and loud, and said, "That's for all you motherfuckers. Have a good day." Then he left my father to stand there red-faced and wanting to kill himself until he got off on the next stop. Because they were Catholic, my father's parents never divorced. They simply did not live together after my grandfather moved out when my father was a boy. My grandfather had his apartments. My parents, when they were teenagers in the 1960s, partying, smoking pot, drinking, and doing whatever else, used to hang out at my grandfather's apartment with their friends and get fucked up. My grandfather got possessive of his apartment one day and raged on the kids, screaming, "This is my fucking pad!" My father went on to have six children but never had a father of his own. I feel sad about that.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Is Complainin Insane-in?
It is morning, I woke up before the alarm, which is always a good thing, but it's still doubtful that I'll make it to work on time. Tardy, tardy, every day. I feel like the biggest asshole some days, frantically driving to work. I'm really never that late; 5 minutes, 3 minutes. But it's the idea. I think I like the adrenaline rush and the drama. The sweat, the stories that swirl through my head as excuses.
"You see, there was this woman and her children, they were waiting on the corner for the bus, and the child was bleeding, so I had to take them to the hospital."
"Oh, it was terrible, a herd of gazelles trampled through my apartment this morning. Christ knows how they got onto the second floor of the building!"
"Jesus, it was like an obstacle course coming to work this morning, all the goddamn potholes that good-for-nothing lousy mayor has yet to have filled! Almost got into an accident at least FIVE times swerving around. Then I had to fill it with the extra concrete I keep in the trunk."
Or I get self-righteous in my mind.
"I was exhausted this morning and didn't even feel like fucking coming in. So back off!"
(Meanwhile, the orange cat just shit, came out of the box, and slid his heinie across the floor, licked it furiously, ran into the bedroom, and jumped onto my bed. Thanks, orange cat, for potential poop stains.)
I am just in an awful mood today. Everything is tainted with anger. Sharp criticisms fuel my brain and tinge my perspectives.
I either have a sinus infection or need a root canal and cannot tell which is which. Fortunately, I am taking care of myself and went to the dentist yesterday, who is suggesting the root canal, but he doesn't seem sure. He recommends root canal because, "why not?" Christ. To my credit, when asked if I wanted something for the pain, I said no, because this is not narcotic pain. I'm very self-congratulatory with this. In any case, I anticipate a headache all fucking day.
My gray cat is a fat lump of lumpiness lumping AND he has dandruff AND he meows too much sometimes.
My v-neck sweater vests are stupid merino wool (I WANT CASHMERE!) and have those fabric pills that look like a disease and I hate them.
Oscar nominations are announced today and, once again, I won't be nominated.
The landlord has not been keeping the heat up, though the temperature is down.
I struggle with money, and this is nothing new and it makes me anxious and angry and it is gross, that is my grand proclamation.
I do not have anonymous sex anymore and I feel lonely. Where is God? Hello?
Ugh, it's fucking work to not be miserable sometimes. My spiritual advisor talks of negative thoughts being like a flock of birds that come to land in the brain. They flutter there, make noise. But we do not have to let them perch. Don't have to feed or entertain them.
But, I realize, sometimes I want to entertain them, feed them crusts of bread and old pretzels. They do keep me company. I know those birds quite well. Can't deny this, but I do hate myself for that.
"You see, there was this woman and her children, they were waiting on the corner for the bus, and the child was bleeding, so I had to take them to the hospital."
"Oh, it was terrible, a herd of gazelles trampled through my apartment this morning. Christ knows how they got onto the second floor of the building!"
"Jesus, it was like an obstacle course coming to work this morning, all the goddamn potholes that good-for-nothing lousy mayor has yet to have filled! Almost got into an accident at least FIVE times swerving around. Then I had to fill it with the extra concrete I keep in the trunk."
Or I get self-righteous in my mind.
"I was exhausted this morning and didn't even feel like fucking coming in. So back off!"
(Meanwhile, the orange cat just shit, came out of the box, and slid his heinie across the floor, licked it furiously, ran into the bedroom, and jumped onto my bed. Thanks, orange cat, for potential poop stains.)
I am just in an awful mood today. Everything is tainted with anger. Sharp criticisms fuel my brain and tinge my perspectives.
I either have a sinus infection or need a root canal and cannot tell which is which. Fortunately, I am taking care of myself and went to the dentist yesterday, who is suggesting the root canal, but he doesn't seem sure. He recommends root canal because, "why not?" Christ. To my credit, when asked if I wanted something for the pain, I said no, because this is not narcotic pain. I'm very self-congratulatory with this. In any case, I anticipate a headache all fucking day.
My gray cat is a fat lump of lumpiness lumping AND he has dandruff AND he meows too much sometimes.
My v-neck sweater vests are stupid merino wool (I WANT CASHMERE!) and have those fabric pills that look like a disease and I hate them.
Oscar nominations are announced today and, once again, I won't be nominated.
The landlord has not been keeping the heat up, though the temperature is down.
I struggle with money, and this is nothing new and it makes me anxious and angry and it is gross, that is my grand proclamation.
I do not have anonymous sex anymore and I feel lonely. Where is God? Hello?
Ugh, it's fucking work to not be miserable sometimes. My spiritual advisor talks of negative thoughts being like a flock of birds that come to land in the brain. They flutter there, make noise. But we do not have to let them perch. Don't have to feed or entertain them.
But, I realize, sometimes I want to entertain them, feed them crusts of bread and old pretzels. They do keep me company. I know those birds quite well. Can't deny this, but I do hate myself for that.
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