Friday, April 18, 2003 :::
Theory of the erotic...
...blah, blah Derrida...
...Breton... .....blah, blah...
I need a drink.
Happy Easter! (unless your Jewish, Hindi,Voodoo, Buddhist, Confucious, Atheist, or from New York, then...err...have a nice weekend!!)
::: at 2:52 PM
Thursday, April 17, 2003 :::
America's Best Christian, Betty Bowers, finally gives you Hets what you've been asking for. The Homosexual Agenda!
::: at 2:14 PM
My ex, M, is coming to town next weekend. I have a feeling that this will amount to the usual. Mainly, lots of sex, a few punches (playfully...at first), and alot of drinking. That pretty much sums up our whole relationship, actually. We really cared for each other (and still do) but it had a tendancy to manifest itself in some rather odd ways, ie: when we were beating the crap out of each other. Neither of us were in very good headspace when we were together. We saw alot in each other that reminded us of ourselves, unfortunately these were things that we found particularlly revolting. When you see certain aspects of your own personea in someone else, this always seems to be particularly sick-making. Now, we could have been adults ("snort!") and talked it through, but instead we tried to numb things with some rather unconspicuous consumption. I don't think I need to tell you how well that worked.
Luckily we can laugh about all this now. He took a pic of the broken-nose and black eye that I gave him as a birthday present one year (he deserved it!). He has it on his desk at home. It makes him smile. I have a scar at my hairline that he gave me when he hit me with that beer bottle (I deserved it!). I can't help but smirk whenever I see it.
I can't wait to see him.
::: at 1:40 PM
Maintaining the staus quo:
Check out The Penis Blog Project.
Don't worry, we know you're all dirty little voyeurs anyways.
::: at 12:50 PM
He linked me, so I'm guessing I should do the same. Thanks Jocko!
::: at 12:27 PM
Check out The International Herald Tribune for all your news needs. They use a pretty broad spectrum of sources, journalists, writers from both sides of the Atlantic. Beats the fuck out of CNN.
::: at 12:11 PM
I'm trying to put links on this damn thing, but they just don't work.
Hey Blogger! What the fuck's up here?
::: at 11:50 AM
It's things like this that make me consider shaping up and flying straight.
"Is romance dead? When a middle-aged boss can't dry hump the head of a hunky 23-year-old straight intern without getting a lawsuit slapped on his ass, maybe it is. Following our recent blind item, Chic Happens has acquired court papers in the $20 million lawsuit filed against fashion ad guru Sam Shahid by former intern and reluctant office play-thing, Mladen Djankovich. Shahid's work for Calvin Klein and Abercrombie & Fitch brought homoeroticism into mainstream ad culture, but young Mladen apparently didn't appreciate similar attention in the workplace. He's suing, among other things, for defamation, sexual harassment and false imprisonment (the latter relating to an incident when Shahid allegedly pinned him to the desk). The complaint lists "unwanted touching; stroking and attempted kissing; subtle and overt pressure for sexual favors; sexual propositions; sexual insults," and, well, you get the idea. In places the complaint reads almost like a Barbara Cartland novel. "March 2000: Shahid tried to kiss Plaintiff. Plaintiff pushed away. Shahid became frustrated and irritated, saying 'What are you fucking worried for, you know you’re gorgeous. I would die for you!'" In other places it reads a little more like porn. "Shahid stood directly behind Plaintiff and placed his crotch on the back of Plaintiff's head and moved back and forth in a sexual manner. He caressed the back of Plaintiff's neck and head with his crotch and then put his hands down both the front and back of the inside of Plaintiff's shirt, touching his bare skin." The good news is, the couple finally have a date. The bad news is, it's April 22, in the Manhattan Supreme Court."
Thanks to Chic Happens for the above post. Check them out to see who's hooked on what!
::: at 11:32 AM
I'm contemplating doing the Catholic Mass thing this weekend. I'm not remotely Catholic, despite my Vatican nightlight, I just want a good show, and baby...Catholics know theatre!
::: at 10:42 AM
'Hey California, It's cold and it's damp,
That's why the lady is a tramp'
Fuck Nina! It's all about Ella.
You faggots just tooooo romantic.
::: at 10:33 AM
Wednesday, April 16, 2003 :::
Bitch, bitch, moan, moan.
It's just the day. The choice of reading materials (I need to put down 'Season in Hell' for a while). The fact that I'm veeery hungover, thanks to some of my usuall tactics.
I want to lie down and watch Martha Stewart, on end, for 8 hours. I want to know how to make plaid eggs. I want to know how to fringe my own scarf. I want to watch her undercut her staff, compulsively clean and reorganize her mudroom, crimp and bead her Chow's hair.
I'm hoping that tonight's 'Good Thing' is the proper way to apologize for groping your friend's fiance.
Like I said, I was up to my usual tactics.
::: at 5:52 PM
You could actually have a meaningfull relationship if:
-you stopped being such a self-posessed freak and actually said something to, I dunno, anybody!
-you actually took interest in what the other person was saying, rather than taking a mental tally of what you're missing on TV or checking out the hot guy at the next table.
-you weren't such a fascist asshole, demanding to have complete control of the situation.
-you didn't get so defensive at the slightest bit of critisism from others, forgetting that you dole out more snippy remarks than most people should have any amount of patience for.
-you stopped dragging out extrememly personal and embarrasing information (your's and other's) and disseminating it in front of large groups of people.
-you could accept any kind of emotional attachtment. It's really quite sweet, the way you get physically ill anytime anyone dears to admit any kind of bond with you.
-you weren't so obsessive/distant. Franticly persuing someone, indulging them at every turn, then ignoring any calls, emails, physical meetings, and then wondering why they're angry.
-you didn't deflect all the major-throbbing issues onto smaller, completely insignificant ones. Although I'm sure the guys at the grocery store will miss watching you have panic attacks over which kind of pasta to get for dinner.
-you didn't let people do things to you. Sorry, it's not in the interest of science, you destructive little prick.
-you actually took peoples advice once in a while.
-hell, follow you're own advice (which you're so keen on dishing out) once in a while.
-you stopped drinking so much (amongst other things!)
Oh well. Thank god for bathhouses.
::: at 5:25 PM
Easy Ways To Get Defensive (Redux):
Go to your physiotherapist!
Remember that apparently licensed therapist you used to go to? The one that told you "everything would be alright, there's nothing wrong, here's some painkillers". Well he was wrong.
Remember when they said "it'll be fine in a week"? Wrong.
"Well how about some anti-inflamatory's? Oh we'll just throw in some more painkillers to!"
"It hurts when you land on it? You're probably just doing it wrong."
"It can't hurt that much!"
"Do you need anymore painkillers? Not working that well anymore? Here try these."
Yes, all those paid proffesionals that you latched onto for advice were full of shit. Pretty much everything that spewed forth from their mouths was, infact, doing you immeasurable harm!
It was all purportedly fact. It was all in good faith. It was all wrong.
Infact, if you hadn't listened to them, you'd probably still be there...
...and it's nobody's fault but your's!
::: at 1:04 PM
Oh, who am I kidding?
::: at 12:08 PM
I've been cast in a performance-art piece. All I can say is that I'm not sticking anything up my ass this time.
::: at 12:07 PM
Tuesday, April 15, 2003 :::
With the weather cooperating so well lately, I have been able to indulge in my favourite leisure activity. Wandering. No destination, no real path, just aimless, pointless wandering. Now wandering also facilitates my other fav thing, people watching. Or more specifically, boy watching.
As I'm standing on the curb, waiting to cross, I see a site that brings particular joy to my eyes. Crew-cut, 5 o'clock shadow, tank top, and ink-smothered mucular arms. He's behind the wheel of one kicky red convertable (top down, of course), cranking up the volume on some hardcore tunes while lighting a cigarette for the chick (damn!) in the passenger seat. I'm fixated on him, well, his arms mostly, as I start crossing. As I'm walking, he catches me looking at him. I'm so transfixed by this point that I don't even pretend otherwise. He's watching me, watching him. He cracks a big smile and says something to the girl next to him. Next thing I know she's hanging out the window of the car taunting me, "You can look, but you can't touch!". We're all laughing at this point. He makes a kissy face at me, I give the chick the finger. We're all sharing a fun little moment. That is, until I walk directly into the front corner of his car.
You see, when I see something that I'm interested in (shoes, men, plants, whatever!) I have the habit of moving towards them, without really realizing it. My fixation only seems to vanish after I've walked into/over/or been run over by said object. This is why I refuse to drive. I don't really want the first words I say to the man of my dreams to be "Someone call an ambulance!".
::: at 11:58 AM
'Les Tigre' est Roi!
I'm ready to tuck it between my legs for that chick.
Just look at their calendar, you'll understand.
::: at 9:59 AM
Monday, April 14, 2003 :::
A tyrant brought down to earth
As Saddam’s statue lies shattered in the Baghdad dust, a sonnet written nearly 200 years ago best sums up the fall of the vainglorious tyrant. Percy Bysshe Shelley was inspired to write Ozymandias by the broken colossus of Pharaoh Rameses II in Egypt, but the poem stands today as fitting epitaph for Saddam’s rule and its wrecked idols:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things.
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
This can work both ways, dear.
::: at 11:44 AM
I didn't write it, but I lived it. They are especially fun when combined together. Especially when those aspects are at conflict with each other. Minor personal meltdowns are always a hit at dinner parties.
::: at 11:39 AM
Oops! That link didn't work (Unions! Bah!)
::: at 11:35 AM
OCD With A Twist
A pervasive pattern of worrying, indulging needless negative thoughts, and just generally picking apart every stupid thing under the sun, paired with feelings that life is meaningless (well, it is, after all), and that nothing is worth doing (this is patently false - that's the greasy fries you ate for lunch talking), punctuated by occasional attempts to grab the wheel and steer the whole sorry mess onto higher ground, often mistaken for "being a total control freak" or "a complete asshole" depending on the situation, as indicated by four (or more) of the following:
(1) makes little lists and loses them; writes important information down on receipts and business cards of people he/she will never call, carries them around, crumpled and stinky, for years, then loses them
(2) paces in circles around apartment, wondering whether to a) make inspiring but melancholy mix CD, b) walk to 7-11 for nachos and cola squishy, c) write 10 more pages of novel without consulting now-oppressive and illegible outline thingy, or d) sit in place on couch, daydreaming about Britney Spears's torso until weak with hunger, necessitating crawling on hands and knees to fridge, where sliced jarlsberg and sweet pickles wait in joyful hope for the coming of their savior
(3) emails everyone he/she knows in one fell swoop, then ignores their replies the next day when he/she is feeling far less affiliative, far more sullen and scratchy
(4) has extreme productivity fetish that results more in constant guilt than in actual work accomplished, punctuated by periods of dropping everything, smoking crack, eating Zero bars, and watching The Iron Chef for days on end
(5) is unable to discard worn-out or worthless objects even when they have no sentimental value, no monetary value, clutter up his/her closet, and bring shame to his/her good name when friends and family wander into his/her closet looking for source of easy laughs
(6) is reluctant to delegate tasks or to work with others because they're fucking stupid, talentless dickwads who don't know what the fuck they're talking about
(7) spends money like it's going out of style, despite all indications that he/she hasn't actually made any cash money in many, many moons
(8) snorts derisively while watching The Bachelor, but secretly wants to be a contestant so he/she could a) spew dirty non sequitors, b) tell Alex to stop being such a retiring pussy and get some ass already, and c) explain the concept of projection to Shannon, who appears to have no dearth of issues to hash out with a paid mental health professional
(9) shows rigidity and stubbornness when it comes to: a) hanging out with passive-aggressive, tedious, or false-seeming people, b) answering the question, "Why don't you get off your fat ass and get some type of a job, you sad little piece of shit?", c) sharing his/her hot fudge sundae with Friendy, even though Friendy has demonstrated that his apple pie, when dipped into said hot fudge sundae, is even better than either apple pie or hot fudge sundae alone, d) actually, that last example is a lie - once he/she figured out that apple pie and hot fudge sundae are two great tastes that taste great together, he/she immediately got with the program, but definitely kept the speed of spooning and dipping a bit faster than Friendy's, to insure that he/she got his/her fair share.
(10) has no real morals to speak of until someone crosses him/her, but overactive neurotic thoughts keep him/her from making others feel bad, particularly if they're old or small and helpless and/or belong to some downtrodden minority group that deserves to kick ass and take names as needed; is not, however, particularly nice to chafing, self-conscious, ultra-ambitious hipsters who talk about themselves nonstop and don't listen
I wish I could, but I cannot take credit for the above post. This was purloined (with permission!) from The Great White Rabbit! Go wallow in the splendor of it all (and send muffins!).
::: at 11:32 AM