Validate me!

just another faggot slutty, but well read

Friday, May 09, 2003 :::
Q: Why would you be surprised to be invited (for the third time) to a dinner party at the well- appointed (if contrived) loft of a loose aquaintence, who you are rather ambivalent about, but he smothers you with praise, attention, champagne, and hires great caterers, so you pretend to care?

A: If you've done any (or all *burp*) of the following:

-Spent the first half hour of being there casing the joint. Taking measurements as needed.

-Blatantly insulted so called "library", owing to the fact that it consists mostly of cheap gay-erotica and Margaret Atwood novels.

-Rifled through liquor cabinet, taking entire bottle of top-shelf vodka and retreating (with another guest that you are much more fond of) to small corner of loft, making no attempt to make any form of conversation with other guests, or host, save for the moments when you point and laugh.

-Giggled whenever host points out a piece in his art collection that he particullarly cares for.

-Rifled through liquor cabinet, complaining of lack of second bottle of top-shelf vodka, taking 25 year old scotch instead. (Repeat this till dinner begins)

-Ignored the fact that it's a non-smoking household. Used plants as ashtrays.

-Rotated between total ambivalence and total dominace (never a respectable middle) in all conversations.

-Freebased in his bedroom.

-Shamelessly hit on his "Life Partner". Also making very obvious the fact that his "Life Partner" is returning the favour ie: exchanging phone numbers during talk of their vacation in Venice.

-Looked visibly digusted whenever anyone used the term "Life Partner" (You always do that, so it's probably not worth mentioning)

-Rifled through hosts belongings, as if you were at the discount store's 'Clearance' bins, until you've found something suitably embarassing, then returned to party and displayed object in a prominent place.

-Repeated above, adding more guests to the search each time.

-Performed sexual acts in bathroom(s).

-Didn't send 'Thank You' note.

Yet he still invites me. I must say, however, that this is pretty much how half of the guests act (well, the ones I know), and the guy absolutely eats it up. No matter what happens (see freebasing, above) he'll just go bright-eyed and laugh- "Ohhhh, you guys". He's either the worlds dorkiest masochist, or he's biding his time and one day we're all going to wondering what that strange taste in the wild mushroom melange is, then notice him cackling in his Barcelona chair moments before it all fades to black....

::: at 3:21 PM

I'm smarter in some parts of the earth than in others. In Florence, Amsterdam, and Milwaukee, my IQ is off the charts. In Munich, Madrid, and Washington, D.C., I'm rather dull-witted. Even in Northern California, where I usually live, some places are more conducive to my higher brain functioning. I'm an idiot on Market Street in San Francisco, for example, whereas I'm awash in wise insights whenever I set foot on Mt. Tamalpais. What's this about? The specialized branch of astrology called astrocartography would say that the full potentials of my horoscope are more likely to emerge in certain power spots. In the coming weeks, Virgo, I urge you to investigate the possibility that this phenomenon holds true for you, too. Wander around and test to see where you feel most in tune with your deep, brilliant self.

-From Free Will Astrology

I already know where I feel most at home. I can sink into it's daily life faster than you can say "Une cafe elongee...merci". Concepts and ideas are easily communicated, in either language. There's no sense of suspicion in between the words, no need for material references or justification-
"The french have three favourite passtimes: backstabbing, love-making, and talking nonsense" Voltaire, Candide
The idea holds the power and the meaning, imbuing the person, rather than vice versa. The altriusm's and absolutionists can kiss my ass. Drunk enough to navigate on own for a change, thanks.
A smile means simply that, a glance, maybee more. The propensity for fleeting glances, casual, but not lacking in potency, adds swagger and salt.
It's not romantacism, it's finding a footing that you can finally hold next to your heart without regrets.
Too bad the government already told me they don't want me.
Too bad (for them) I never listen.

::: at 1:16 PM

To the Muscle-Bunny at Timothy's last night, who after eavesdropping on my conversation with M#2 about my AVERSION to having to re-draft the incest scene, still felt justified in coming over and calling me a "...sick twisted fuck!" and "I hope you rot in hell":

"Nice ass. Wanna fuck?"

::: at 10:55 AM

Therefore it is always a difficult matter for one person to offer another such a comfort, because when the troubled one consults him and he then says, 'I certainly do know where comfort is to be found, indescribable comfort; indeed, what is more, it transforms itself little by little in your soul into the highest joy.'—then the troubled one will probably listen attentively. But when it is added, 'Nevertheless, before this comfort can come, you must understand that you yourself are simply nothing; you must chop down the bridge of probability that wants to connect wish and impatience and desire and expectation with the object wished for, desired, and expected; you must renounce the worldly mentality's association with the future; you must retreat into yourself, not as into a fortress that still defies the world while the self-inclosed person nevertheless has with him in the fortress his most dangerous enemy (indeed, it may even been to the enemy's advice when he closed himself up in this way), but into yourself, sinking down before your own nothingness and surrendering yourself to grace and disgrace'—then the troubled one would very likely go away disgraced.
- Upbuidling Discourse, Soren Kierkegaard

::: at 10:19 AM

Thursday, May 08, 2003 :::
He wept. He promised "a new start".
I made no comment. What should I resent?'

-The Fire Sermon
TS Eliot

::: at 12:02 PM

For Lame-O

Symposium: Doctors and the people that want free travel, but are to stubborn to just shut-up and deal with their annoying habits.

I have been thinking about calling the Doc for a bit now (astute readers will remember him, or at least the part when I spilt poppers in my nose). Not that I'm actually pining for him in any fashion, I'm just broke and could use a nice meal with the good china.

note: Before I go any further I will mention that from the get-go, this was clearly a sex-as-capitalism relationship. Any night that begins with a walk through the garage looking at the selection of cars is obviously hinting towards "I can shower you with goods, if you can offer me a shower of another sorts."

Now why the fuck would I be complaining about this? Mainly because I can tolerate actuall conversation (if you can call it that) for a good 5 minutes, before I want to slug him. I don't know what feeds the compulsion, but the guy cannot stop imitating Simpson's characters. So far I've had drinks with Mr. Burns, brunch with Apu, and a reeeaaaalllly long car ride with some unholy amalgamation of Dr. Evil and Marlon Brando. Now imagine 1 week on a Spanish island with them, and no doubt many others. Sure it might entice me to learn Spanish, but I have a feeling it would lean me more towards either:

a) alchohol poisoning

b) heavy ketamine use

c) joining a Basque separatist group

None of which are really on my list...except maybee the last one. Vive La Resistance!! (yes I'm aware of the implications of using french rather than the prescribed dialect, but I don't speak it so just use your fucking imaginations)

I know, poor fucking me! But with my current financial situation, which is more likely to land me in court rather than the tarmac at Charles du Galle, I could definately use some uppies (and for once I'm not talking prescription).

Maybee for once I'll just shut-up and deal with it, either way.

Ha! Not bloody likely!

::: at 11:19 AM

Wednesday, May 07, 2003 :::
These ambiguities, redundances, and deficiences recall those attributed by Dr. Franz Kuhn to a certain Chinese encyclopedia entitled Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge. On those remote pages it is written that animals are divided into (a) those that belong to the Emperor, (b) embalmed ones, (c) those that are trained, (d) suckling pigs, (e) mermaids, (f) fabulous ones, (g) stray dogs, (h) those that are included in this classification, (i) those that tremble as if they were mad, (j) innumerable ones, (k) those drawn with a very fine camel's hair brush, (l) others, (m) those that have just broken a flower vase, (n) those that resemble flies from a distance.

-- Essay: "The Analytical Language of John Wilkins"

Jorge Luis Borges

::: at 1:29 PM

Paranoid:Very High
Schizotypal:Very High
Borderline:Very High
Narcissistic:Very High
Avoidant:Very High

-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

Learning is fun!

::: at 12:19 PM

Yes, I already feel the need to contradict myself. Check this out. Yes it is "interactive", but it's french and I'm pretentious so shut up and go play!

::: at 12:00 PM

Alright people, it's proposition time.

Yes, that too, but something else first. I've noticed that there are many repeat offenders here. People who, like me, probably have something better to do, but would rather wallow in the folies of others. Now, I'm all for voyeurism, but like that obnoxious infomercial states:

"It's time for Participaction!"

{brain: You spent all night reading semiotics and that's the best you could come up with? Get me my fucking coffee already!}

Yes, it's time to stand up and be counted! Roll call people!

I'm just satisfying some paranoid, histrionic urges here, and even by reading anything on this page you're already a willing conspiritor to my neurosis. You don't have to agree with anything I blab about-Hell, I love playing the antagonist!- so feel free do tear me new asshole. But I want to to hear from you. Most importantly I want to know who you are. Maybee I'll feel a little more inclined to let lose some of the information I hold back, like half the shit between me and M, which I'm still considering throwing out there, but we'll see.

So join in the fray! Mail me!

I won't post anything you say, unless you're overtly cruel, then I'll post it and even give you all the confirmation you could ever want. You all love all that "dynamic" and "interactive" bullshit that's bandied around so much, so why not make it happen?

::: at 10:19 AM

Tuesday, May 06, 2003 :::
Immature Song


I have heard that adolescence is a recent invention,
A by-product of progress, one of Capitalism’s

Suspended transitions between one state and another,
Like refugee camps, internment camps, like the Fields

Of Concentration in a campus catalogue. Summer
Camps for teenagers. When I was quite young

My miscomprehension was that “Concentration Camp”
Meant where the scorned were admonished to concentrate,

Humiliated: forbidden to let the mind wander away.
“Concentration” seemed just the kind of punitive euphemism

The adult world used to coerce, like the word “Citizenship”
On the report cards, graded along with disciplines like History,

English, Mathematics. Citizenship was a field or
Discipline in which for certain years I was awarded every

Marking period a “D,” meaning Poor. Possibly my first political
Emotion was wishing they would call it Conduct, or Deportment.

The indefinitely suspended transition of the refugee camps
Must be a poor kind of refuge—subjected to capricious

Kindness and requirements and brutality, the unchampioned
Refugees kept between childhood and adulthood, having neither.

In the Holy Land, for example, or in Mother Africa.
At that same time of my life when I heard the abbreviation

“DP” for Displaced Person I somehow mixed it up with
“DT’s” for Delirium Tremens, both a kind of stumbling called

By a childish nickname. And you, my poem, you are like
An adolescent: confused, awkward, self-preoccupied, vaguely

Rebellious in a way that lacks practical focus, moving without
Discipline from thing to thing. Do you disrespect Authority merely

Because it speaks so badly, because it deploys the lethal bromides
With a clumsy conviction that offends your delicate senses?—but if

Called on to argue such matters as the refugees you mumble and
Stammer, poor citizen, you get sullen, you sigh and look away.

—Robert Pinsky

The Threepenny Review

::: at 4:59 PM

Animal Farm-The Musical!

After preaching about a quiet night at home for about 3hrs, I pulled my usual stunt and decided this could only be acheived after a few drinks in some plush surroundings. We decided we needed a view to go along with it, so we rolled into a cab and headed off to a bar situated atop one of the many office towers. Normally this would have been a great idea, we even remembered binoculars so we could spy on the urban-jack-offs in the over-priced/under-designed condos nearby, but thanks to the intermitent thundershowers that had been going on all day upon our arrival we were greeted with fog and a sexualy ambiguous waiter (as if there's another kind?!). With our entertainment factor downgraded considerably, we all agreed we would have to make up for this shortfall ourselves. Now, the music here was about as inspiring as the view that night (Surprise! 50 Cent!), as was the clientele (When are 'faux-tails acceptable? Unless you're a fierce downtown drag queen, never!) so we politely asked if we could request a change in one. A patron make-over was nixed rather fast, so we opted for music.

We stated it simply: Disco-good, Stones-better

We got B.I.G. Oh well, we thought. We can live with this. We could all agree on Biggy, especially the "uuuuuunnghh". Nothin' better. Of course we all have to give our best rendition of the famous "uuunnnnggghhh" which when moaned en mass, takes on the sound of a herd of courting sea lions. This lasted for a good 5 min before an obviously perturbed waiter came over and pointed out the less-than-impressed looks on the surrounding patrons. We'd stop, we said, but you gotta offer some better music for us. Well we were definatelly giving off the 'gay-vibe' that night because we got the Imperial Crack-Whore herself, Whintey-I make too much money to smoke crack!-Houston. Not just any Whitney either. Vintage "I wanna dance with somebody" Whitney. Of course we have to live up to the imposed "faggot" standard, so we compiled a little impromtu Debbie Allen jazz-hands, drag travesty number to entertain everyone with. Unfortunately we also decided to sing, and the animal vocals chain of order seemed to go

sea lions in heat


rabid squirells, with fantabulous badger back up band

Yeah, that lasted about 2 min before the inevitable: "I'm the manager here, and I'm going to have to ask you to leave!". So we did what any jilted artistes would do and stole as many mints and ashtrays as we could and piled back into the elevator to go carry our little revue into the streets.

The hookers below were gratefull, I'm sure.

::: at 12:21 PM

Monday, May 05, 2003 :::
Virgo: (Aug. 23—Sept. 22)
You will finally develop soft, shiny, touchable hair, just moments before getting hit by a bus--which at first might seem unrelated.

::: at 1:24 PM

"Hello!, My name is Whore."

I've been called upon, again, to play "the other woman". What the fuck is this? In the past two months, I have been asked by two different parties to "go do my thing" and "get that bastard out of the picture".

I used to joke that a couple hours with Hegel and I could justify just about anything, but come on here, I have enough work to do already. There's a stack of books that are already muttering to each other about my lack of focus, and kids, I don't need another voice pointing out the obvious. Especially know-it-all German fascists.

"Put it on my "In" tray. I'll get to when I can."

"In one month?! Hey if you want permanent results rather than a quick fix I need a little more time."

"Hey I can't even find my 'Critical Tradition' right now-"

"-already buying appliances?

What kind?

Oh fuck, why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Susan, get my jockstrap! We've got a code blue!"

::: at 1:10 PM

Things were suprisingly calm with M. There was a little tension at first. We had alot to say to each other, but we were missing a starting point. We had both decided that Q&A time was long overdue, and despite the fact that we already knew the answers that we would give to each other, it just had to come out of our mouths. We could accept it now. We wouldn't fight (or at least try not to), we wouldn't throw any kind of punches. We would, however, consume as much liquor as necessary to get it all out.

Note: Despite the fact that I'm fairly loud, theatrical, expansive, and like baring things, I'm a violently private person about certain aspects of my life.

Well, it's all out now. Despite some panic attacks and crying fits on both sides, we've owned up to alot. One long and fucking agonizing apology that mercifully didn't end in the usual grand-mal meltdown that has coloured our relationship in the past.

I've never slept as well as I slept that night.

::: at 12:23 PM

For now I can let the old bones rest. I'm moved. M has gone home. Creditors don't have my new number...


M has retreated, in every sense of the word. Newly fit and trim. Out of "spite", he said.

Me: In spite of whom?

M: You. (plants a big kiss on my cheek) Who else?

Okay, not necesarrily trim. I don't think I could ever apply that towards his brawny frame. The Buddha-belly has retreated though, and I must say I'm not to sure I like it. I guess that's part of "in spite of me".

Isn't that a song? If not it should be.

The procedings got strange after the unearthing of some old photos, cerca '96, the "begining of the end" as so many of that crew refer to it so affectionately. I looked exactly like a piece of waxed fruit, and despite a little more weight on my bones, it was almost transparent. Obtuse eyeshadow applications that I'm sure looked "fabulous" when first administered, are mashed into the skin, streaked from sweat and take on the appearance of massive bruises. We all looked like those "Oxidation" works by Warhol. Pissed-on and obatining a certain verdegris.

Fabulous! (said with lit cigarette hanging out of the mouth, ash spilling into Stoli cup, and straw firmly inserted in nose, taking long draws of...something? You know, Fabulous!)

Then I hit a picture of M. I have no idea when or where it was taken, but it was quinessentially M. Back against the wall, one leg over the other, arms crossed. Trying to sneer a little, but the boyish side still slipped through. The corner of his lip just starting to turn up, he's trying to suppres a smile, trying not to let the tough demeanor drop. Like I said, I have no idea where or when it was taken, but I know that the second after that camera snapped, that smile burst out, he would probably give a little giggle, then run over and rap his arms around me, firmly planting my head in his chest. The "Big Boy".

Me: Big Boy!

M: What?

I hand him the picture, he grins that jackass grin. He doesn't say anything, he just wraps his arms around me, letting me nuzzle into his neck. I can't see his face, but I know he's smiling, and I can be assured that somethings will never change.

::: at 11:21 AM

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slutty, but well read

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