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.

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 companies realize that animals don't belong in captivity!!! Orca ...more

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.