Validate me!


just another faggot slutty, but well read



Friday, May 16, 2003 :::
 
Despite doing the cover art for 'American Life', I shall always wet myself for these boys. Aside from working with two of my favourite artists, Pierre Huyghe & Philippe Parreno, their current projects include everything and anything Bjork, and the rather daunting task of overhauling the look of French Vogue (under the direction of Carine "Roitweiller" Roitfeld).
Buy their stuff! They deserve the money more than you!

::: at 4:32 PM


 
I'm a little on-edge at the moment. I was leafing through some horoscopes and this is what I found-

"In New York last January, a talking carp began shouting religious advice in Hebrew to an Hispanic food preparer who was about to turn it into a meal. The restaurant owner came in to investigate the commotion and became a second witness to the event. The New York Times reported the story, and soon a local Hasidic sect was proclaiming the fish's message to be a direct communication from God. Though many people laugh with derision when they hear this tale, I retain an open mind. The Divine Trickster has appeared to me in equally unusual forms. No doubt you will share my perspective by the end of this week, Virgo. You're about to have a visitation that's maybe a little less mysterious than a talking fish, but not by much."-Free Will

ummm, have you seen Maelstrom?



::: at 3:25 PM


 
Do I post concerning my hatred of modern gay culture (if you can even call it that anymore), my aversion to the whole Pride Day scenario, why we (gays) should be taking legal action against dear Madge for royalties (You think she came up with any of those ideas herself?), or my past attempts at sexual relationships with Neo-Nazis (henceforth know as Attila Richard Lukacs Syndrome)?



::: at 11:44 AM



Thursday, May 15, 2003 :::
 
I spent the majority of last night lying paralyzed on my couch. I didn't move, save for grasping a cigarrete pack and lighter every 5 minutes, for about 3 hrs. My brain needed some "personal space" apparently. I swear he's seeing some pandering, possesive therapist on the side. She's probably telling him he deserves better and that he should move on and break free from the destructive little cycle we have going. She's probably got him signed up for some sort of Bigger-Better-You kinda seminar, where they'll all nod their heads compassionately, saying "WE understand. You're not alone." and eat powdered sugar donuts (Which BLOW! Everyone knows it's all about Bavarian Cream). He'll shed a tear as he tells some wo-begotten tale of my verbal abuse, physical threats, and that time I pimped him off.
If only they knew.
He's much more cunning that he makes out, you see. Trust me, I've lived with the little fucker all my life, I know how he operates. He tells it as if I'm the one that forced all this upon him. As if he wasn't laughing to his friends as he popped string after string of loaded non-sequitors into my head, all of them laughing along at the subsequent outcome. Lulling me into sensing that everything was alright, then pulling back the veil to see the real carnage that had unfolded.
"I just thought it would be interesting to see what happened"
I tell you, the minute that little bastard gets back...well, it better still be happy hour, cause I'm gonna make him HURT!

::: at 4:40 PM


 
I wanna snuggle!



::: at 4:14 PM



Wednesday, May 14, 2003 :::
 
Ghosts of Christmas Future: (To the tune of 'Fairies Wear Boots' by the Toilet Boys)

As I walked to work this morning, I was given a glimpse of my future. I was not at all suprised to find out it involves heels.
He looked like a veery bedragled Bob Dylan, circa 1970. The more I think about it the more I think it might actually be Bob Dylan!
He was laying on the concrete, half propped up against the wall of a building, taking long savouring drags of his cigarette. He wore a stained and beat up white shirt, with ruffles on the cuffs and lapel, a black velvet blazer, mod-ish black pants and, yes, 3 inch heeled, black boots!
He was obviously trashed, but pulled it of with perfect insouciance.
He didn't give a fuck, he's a Rock-God from a bygone era, condescending glares offend him not!
He makes all those bed-headed overly-ironic little fucks that parade around today, purporting themselves to be the "saviours of rock!", look like the vile-twink-frauds that they really are. I want to stick them in some smoky-backwater hell hole with him for just 15 minutes, so that when they emerge I can watch them try to cover up the urine stains on their pants and franticly call their mom on their cellphones, crying and wailing to come pick them up in her Lexus so they can be whisked back to their spacious but scruffy downtown lofts (which mommy pays for) and promptly kill themselves.

Oh, to dream.

My Rock-Gods smell like JD not D&G, so "shut the fuck up and get off the stage ya pansies!"



::: at 1:11 PM


 
"British scientists put six Sulawesi crested macaques in a room with a computer for a month and found that the monkeys, despite their affection for the letter S, failed to produce a single word but displayed a particular interest in defecating and urinating on the keyboard."
-Harper's

This is exactly why I've stopped dating writers!

::: at 11:06 AM



Tuesday, May 13, 2003 :::
 
"So I sez to Mable, I sez...

...the guyz a bum-"

Oh, hey.

So apparently the bf of the urban-jack-off (henceforth known as UJO) was channeling Albee and funnelling vodka when he compiled the guest list for Saturday's little soire. It consisted as follows:

UJO&BF: Well meaning but trite (and has a weird New England accent even though he's from the midwest), smart and funny but flighty, respectively.
Me: Arrogant, prone to dropping things and substance abuse (not related, oddly enough)
Guest #2: Writer, bites when threatened.
Guest #3: Film industry type, despite this, only respectable one in lot.
Guest #4: Trust-fundian. Huge supporter of the arts, likes dangerous sex
Guest #5: Artist, fun and irreverent, tendency to start slap-fights.

Quite the place setting!

Now, as if we needed any egging on, G#5 decided to bring along the ingredients for his favourite drink: Red Bull and Chambourd. Think about it. Combine the traits listed above, then obliterate any remaining inhibitions (Chambourd) and give a little frenzied energy to boot (Red Bull). Not to mention the other more maligned things that would be consumed that evening. Well actually, I will mention. During one of UJO's droning little re-tellings' of how the deli almost gave him the 6 month old proscuitto, rather than the 12 month, and what a fiasco it was to correct, I noticed that everyone in the room had pulled out their cell phones and were franticly sending various messages. Now at first I didn't quite know what was going on, then I saw the wallets break out, money counted and pooled, and deals struck with the tenacity worthy of Sundance. A quick glance from G#4 assured me I wasn't forgotten. It was unanamous that after the day we had all had (mine consisting of continued work on the incest scene, which to offer an update sounds as if Charlotte Bronte had taken a side job writing Blacksploitation porn) we couldn't go any further till we killed off the brain cells that could remember what we had been doing for the last 10 hours. Thanks to these rather dubious contacts, within 10 minutes, the door bell was going off like a fire alarm. It was handled with such perfected grace and precision, by G#3, that it left the majority of us in awe. "No wonder she is where she is" and "Thank god she's on our side!" I was thinking. Now, what followed should be summarized, photographed, and published for what it was, textbook escapism. No words, no chatter, just furious tap-tap-tapping. Nothing said until our minds were wiped clean, so as not to breakdown in tears (again) in the middle of the soup course.
With a double shot of narcissisum coursing through our vains, we could now attend to more pressing matters, like music. Luckily, G#5, had brought along a small collection, one of which being Mariachi music. Not just your regular mariachi music, but crack induced, slightly austere-German (think Recht) mariachi music. We played it as loud as we could, and we danced like fools. We decided to start a gang. We wanted to start a war!

But first, salad.

Mmm, grapefruit and goat cheese. I savoured every bite, knowing full well that due to the evening's earlier activities, my taste buds would soon be annihilated, and you could serve me half cooked dog and I wouldn't know. I decided to focus on the presentation.

While waiting for the main course, we fixed ourselves some martinis. Red Bull, chambourd, and vodka martinis. We should have just started freebasing. As we enjoyed our little holy-trinity cocktails, G#4 asked me a most intruiging question:

G#4: "Have you ever been fucked so hard, or fucked someone else so hard, that you/they bled?"

Me: "Why yes!" I exclaimed cheerily, and began to regale them with my little tail of bathhouse misfortunes and not being able to shit properly for 2 weeks.

Main Course: Quinoa with mixed bitter greens with an asian inspired dressing, seared ostrich tenderloin.

We took this bit of synchronicity in stride, and configured the above ingredients as best we could, to resemble my fecal matter during those 2 weeks.

(Note: Use grapefruit vinagrette from previous course in place of real blood. Less waste and no visits to the emergency room. It's a Good Thing.)

Despite our imposed connotations, it was still damn good. Bravo Chef!

Desert: Molten-chocolate cake.

Need I say more? As we washed down the quinoa with a couple more batches of Holy-shit-I-can't-see!-Trinity martinis, we examined it's molten centre and decided it could only be attacked one way: Face firmly planted on plate. Like at a pie eating contest. Or, as a certain someone pointed out, eating out a woman.

That called for 2 more rounds of martinis, and a couple more rounds of "tap-tap-tap". By this point, with the music still blaring in the background, our voices had hit such a level that absolutely no one knew what on earth was going on. Of course the best way to remedy this kind of misunderstanding is to drown it, but with supplies rapidly depleting, we would have to make an excursion. Luckily G#5 had a vehicle that could fit us all!! His father's van, which he had for the weekend to pick-up supplies for his various projects. Now, G#5's parents are both Philipino, and if you've been to the Philipines, you know what they do to their vehicles. This fucking thing was faggoted-up to such a degree it would make Louis XIV gag. I'm talking a neon-virgin-mary-disco-rape-disaster of the highest order. We all pile in, marvelling at the Saint bedeckled-chrome plated interior, and headed of on what was supposed to be a simple run to G#5's house, where there was another stock of ingredients. We were a formidable, if somewhat disoriented, force. I won't mention how long it took to get out of "park" (it was an automatic, he only know's standard), or the fact that the brakes were so warn down, we had to start breaking at the sight of a traffic sign or set of lights. I also don't need to point out that it is never a good idea to stop in the middle of the freeway, as to ascertain exactly where you are. You're on the fucking freeway!!
We never made it to G#5's house. We ended up passing by a certain after-hours bar that doesn't *cough* serve liquor past the prescribed hour. The idea of having to drive for another block in our little Roccoco-Death-Trap was less than appealing, so off we went.
Don't start thinking that although faced with several near-death experiences, our little UJO got off easy. You see, the bar had a kareoke machine, and we decided to serenade each other, or rather, our addictions and glaring social defects. Each chosen song was dedicated to one of the many problems coursing through the room at that time. G#2 sang a most beautiful rendition of "My Favourite Game" and dedicated it to my propensity for fucking other people's boyfriends. G#5 sang "I Will Survive" from the point of view of a veneral disease. He didicated it G#4's stint with gonorhea. The BF then decided it was his turn. His chosen song: "Girl, you'll be a woman soon". We didn't quite get it at first, he's not a trannie, or a drag queen in any way, he's very clean-cut butch blah-gay. He dedicated it to the fact that "since you can't get it up, we might as well just chop it off!"

GONGGGGGG!!!!!

Someone was not amused!

We, on the other hand, were speechless. The mix of joy, bloodlust, and Wild Turkey nearly made me fall over. G#3 looked as if she was seeing God! We all waited for a reactiion. He said nothing, just calmy removed himself and headed off into the night.

Mark you're calendars kids, 'cause if this relationship lasts another month, I owe you all a coke!




::: at 11:27 AM



Monday, May 12, 2003 :::
 
Question:

What do Choire Sicha/Electrelane/and this little damp corner of the web have in common?

My interest is tweaked!



::: at 2:28 PM


 
Conversations with my little big woman:

Mom: So, someone tells me you're dating a doctor? How long, what's his name, what kind of doctor is he?

Me: Oh fuck! Who told?!

Mom: I have my ways...so tell me, is he handsome?

Me: Mother, we're not even dating.

Mom: Oh, so you just started seeing him?

Me: Well...no...a month I guess. I'm not "seeing" him.

Mom: (questioning tone) Oh, so it's the money?

Me: Well...pretty much.

Mom: Hmmm...Oh well, as long as you're out and having fun. He's at least taking you someplace nice?

Me: I still have to train him a bit. You know, if they have the money, they definatelly don't know what to do with it.

Mom: Oh, I know. Well at least have a bit of fun, you deserve a little break. How's the apartment coming along?


I love my Mom. Nothing more to say there.

::: at 10:31 AM






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slutty, but well read



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