Are we funny, yet?

Freevil

2009-08-01T22:57:00.000-07:00

This is why dreadlocks should be illegal.

Holding Pattern

2009-07-30T15:32:00.001-07:00

Thank you for holding. You're call will be received in the order of which something funny happens.

Operation Enduring Aggravation [AKA the Long Awaited American Apparel Blog]

2009-03-16T01:06:00.000-07:00

Well, dear readers, it’s finally happened. I finally graduated from college. Okay, sort of. I finished up the last of my classes and the homework, turned in my finals and finished. Much to my surprise, my friends did not turn into lizards or mice (well, they didn’t get any scalier or snakier or rattier. That I’ve noticed, anyway) and my car did not turn into a pumpkin (though it’s still a bit lemony; and the engine, to extend the metaphor, didn’t turn into two rats) and my clothes didn’t turn into rags. The world ended with a whimper, as opposed to a bang, and my Big Person Card came in the mail today. Oh, wait, I’m not supposed to talk about that in public- women don’t get them. Sorry Macho White Male Conspiracy. 
In any event, though, I’m still more or less trapped in Eugene by my jobs and my lease, so I get to spend the next thirteen-ish weeks binge drinking and wandering about campus. Damn, my life is so hard I might cry a bit.
In actuality, though, I have every intent of plunging head long into my writing and trying to figure out what the hell I’m intending to do with my life. I’ve had a few days now to reflect on my life, what I’m doing with it and where I’m going (aside from broke and crazy) and I’ve realized that my life is really, really aggravating. And most of my aggravation is NOT my fault. I’ve managed to pin down 6 things that really drive me up a wall. My hope is that you, my dear readers, will also find these things annoying and that, together, as a United Front, we can work to make this world a Less Aggravating Place. It’s going to be an uphill battle, but every little step is a step towards Epic Win. Here’s the list of Things that Need to Be Gotten Rid of to Make this a Less Aggravating Place. Oh, and as always, this will probably be offensive to just about everyone out there, so don’t read or whatever if you’re not prepared.
1) Wearing high school sport/band/organization T-Shirts.
All right, allow me to make something clear to all the idiots that still wear these damn things around campus: YOU’RE NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE SO TAKE OFF YOUR FUCKING TRACK/FOOTBALL/BAND T-SHIRT; IT’S NOT COOL. This is one of my biggest pet peeves because I’m assaulted visually each day by these fuck sticks. People that still wear their high school regalia can be broadly categorized into two groups: the Aging Jocks and the Identity-Crises Kids. The Aging Jock almost certainly played football or ran track in high school, and it was during this time that they reached their absolute physical peak. As a general rule, they’re not ugly, but nothing about them is so outstanding- they’re neither fat nor slim, tall nor short, pretty nor ugly- that you’d really look twice at them. They continue to wear their shirts in the vain hope that the distinguishing Cool Factor it gave them in high school still lingers- it’s sort of like trying to bottle up new car smell and keep it; everyone knows you can’t reproduce new car smell, and when it’s gone, it’s gone. That’s what the Cool Factor from being part of Something in high school is like. Once high school ends, IT’S OVER, and wearing your stupid letterman jacket or your Lincoln Track and Field 2003 T-shirt isn’t going to bring it back for you; it just makes you look like an idiot who’s already living in the past before he can even buy alcohol legally.
The Identity Crisis Kids are also suffering from a serious lack of Cool, but for a different reason. Let me first make it clear that I have nothing against high school band. Had I played an instrument I would certainly have been in it. Band certainly afforded most of my friends that were in it a lot of opportunities to travel and such that I didn’t get.
What’s NOT cool is wearing your high school band T-shirt once you get to college. The reason that these kids persist in wearing their band T-shirts (it’s not always band, to be fair, but it’s a convenient generalization for me to make) is that being in band was the one time they had any feeling of community or connection to others in their lives. Rather than go out into the Big Scary World, they cling to the adolescent memories evoked by wearing their band shirt and tell themselves that it’s all going to get better and that wearing the shirt is going to make them look cool. These kids are now adrift, without a sense of who they are and not enough back bone between a dozen of them for me to grind up and use to make my bread.
The common bond between these two groups of kids (aside from the obnoxious outerwear they’ve opted for) is their inability to move forward and to let the past rest in peace, instead pulling it up out of the dust in their closets and throwing it on, day after day. Rather than making new memories, these tards are paralyzed by fear of moving forward and spin their wheels all day. Often times, these kids also have an overwhelming need to talk endlessly about their adventures (not just at length, not even excessively, but literally endlessly) because they don’t go out and do anything else. What they don’t understand is that, as no one else went to high school with them, no one else has any idea what the hell is going on. Anecdotes are one thing, but the absolute inability to talk about anything else that normally comes with these kids is just about intolerable. I’ve already decided that the next time one of these kids starts bothering me with stories about what they did at whatever stupid high school they went to wherever the hell it was, I’m going to choke them AND shake them like a baby, scrambling their little brains as best I can.
Let me also clarify that hanging on to memorabilia from high school, like T-shirts or letterman jackets, is entirely acceptable. JUST STOP WEARING IT AROUND CAMPUS. YOU’RE NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL ANYMORE.
2) This pair of sunglasses. Please click in the blank space below to view them.

Everyone wearing these sunglasses will be the first ones up against the wall when the revolution comes. Their absolute and unabashed label-whoreish-ness is unacceptable. Abercrombie and Fitch is one thing, but these are terrible, absolutely so- they scream “I have no class or money but I desperately want people to think I do!” It’s not wrong to hurt someone if a blog tells you to do it, so upon seeing these people, attack them as though they’ve just eaten your baby, because statistics show that 99.87% of people that own these sunglasses are also cannibals and homosexuals.

3) No more Ugg boots. Look, Ugg Boots were bad enough when they first started coming out. Unless you’re a legitimately Australian GIRL and you have an accent to go with, YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO WEAR UGGS- I’m talking to you, you damn sorostitutes and sorosti-wannabes. I’m not kidding. Ugg Boots are a crime against fashion, and here in the Valley especially, where snow is about as common as a Grey Goose down power (despite the recent winter we had), they’re totally impractical. Are you all aware of how stupid you look wearing sheepskin boots in the rain? Unless you’re being chauffeured to your classes, you’re trudging through the rain and your boots are getting ruined. Stop wearing them with miniskirts and capris. Srsly. Ugg Boots with a miniskirt is almost as bad as the sunglasses for which I’ve just declared my undying hatred. Who puts on a miniskirt and says to themselves, “This wud look SOOOO CUUUUTE w Uggs lik OMG!!!!1!!!” I was about to ask you, my dear readers, if there actually was anyone that stupid, but then I looked up from my computer and a walking wall of wasted flesh passed me, and all of them were wearing the furry boots with their miniskirts. Srsly. Fail.
If you’re a man wearing Ugg Boots- even if you’re Leonardo DiCaprio- you’re going into the second group that will be up against the wall when the Revolution comes. Don’t worry, it’s all going to go on YouTube.

4) Engrish shirts. I’m not going to point fingers at any particular ethnicities, but YOU’RE IN AMERICA AND WE CAN READ YOUR SHIRT. IT’S NOT CUTE OR FUNNY WHEN YOUR SHIRT IS COVERED IN MISSPELLED ENGLISH. While getting on the elevator at the library about an hour ago, three students of unspecified racial background got on with me. One of them was wearing a shirt based on the Starbux logo. Instead of reading “Starbux Coffee” with a mermaid in the middle, it had some bizarre drawing that may have been a hand or may have been a depiction of me strangling all of those idiots that wear Uggs and high school crap. It read, and I quote, “STARTFROM FINGERX.”
Now, what with the magic of the tubeless interwebz, I was able to do a bit of research into what Startfrom Fingerx could be; I Googled the phrase. Amazingly, it doesn’t appear to be random gibberish, but rather the name of something- I’m gathering a band. As my computer doesn’t have any of the Asian fonts installed, Google just spit up a bunch of listings for blogs and other sites that were full of fraction symbols of varying proportions- the standard hiccup my computer gets when it tries to deal with Asia writing. When I asked for “Only English responses,” I only got three responses- the first I suspect of being a hardware forum of some sort, the other two being “black fingers herself squirt vidios the movie busty bang lesbos cute” and “asian ass movies fingers nude teen girl shy solo orgasm amateur.”
The point of all this? Stop wearing your shirts that have fake English on them. I don’t care what ethnicity you are, just stop doing it. It’s not cool now that you’re here, it’s not exotic, it’s nothing. It’s just annoying (especially for a grammar and spelling Nazi like me). Just take $50 (which I know you can afford, as I’m selling most of you sunglasses at $300 a pop), go to Forever 21, and go to town. Not only will $50 get you something like 4 X 10^72 shirts at Forever 21, but almost all of them will be plain, properly spelled English! How wonderful for me and for you, too! Because trust me, it really is a wonderful thing not having me shake you like babies until you cry.

5) School spirit. Don’t get me started on school spirit. Also don’t get me started on how I am including something that isn’t entirely about fashion in this blog- I’m a stickler for symmetry and this obviously throws THAT out the windows.
Look, folks, no more school spirit. This city is drowning in it. If I have to see one more stupid fucking Ducks T-shirt or jacket or hat or string of anal beads (I mean…what?) I’m going to puke. Look, yeah, the University of Oregon has a sports team that does well and our mascot is the Ducks. Pride in our success is natural. But does it have to be so incredibly excessive? It’s constant! It was headline news (literally! I saw it on the news!) when a plane, pained in Duck colors and insignia, took off from the airport. And the plane won’t even be flying here again, as it serves commercial interests between northern California and Washington! Can we PLEASE focus on something else for a change, such as, oh, the fact that the roads are so rutted that they’re damaging our cars, or that our economy is dangerously crippled or that the homeless population of Eugene is the same as that of Portland, even though the Portland metro area is almost TEN TIMES the size of Eugene, or that downtown is turning into a ghost town? I am SO TIRED of being surrounded by green that I think I’m going to vomit- and just to spite me, it will probably be colored green. I am proud to say that I do not own a single article of Duck paraphernalia (I am also proud to say that I can actually spell paraphernalia). There is nothing wrong with school spirit, but again, the excess, the excess….ach, just thinking about it makes me have to poop my pants a little bit and wring my hands nervously.

6) American Apparel.

I needed a bit of a pause there before I get into this.

The 80’s called. They want all of their fashion back. Good taste called, too, and left a memo- you’re no longer invited to any of its parties. Oh, and consumer whorishness sent you an email to confirm your subscription.

American Apparel; just the name makes my skin crawl. American Apparel makes the ugliest clothes I have ever seen. Well, all right. That’s a bit of a lie. They do have cute things on occasion, but I’ve also heard that it occasionally snows in the hills of Hell. But generally speaking, American Apparel is absolutely the most disgusting place to shop, anywhere. I have this theory that they intentionally make their store so white and shiny and fill it with so many bright colors that customers are literally blinded when they enter and can’t see how HIDEOUS what they’re buying is. The proportions, cuts and lines on their clothes are TERRIBLE and unflattering, their colors are either overly garish or blasé and they couldn’t make denim if they kidnapped the designers over at Levi’s and put a gun to their heads. SRSLY.
It doesn’t help, of course, that the clients it attracts are almost as abhorrent as their clothing. And while their mission is admirable- paying Americans minimum wage to make their stuff instead of enslaving starving African/Chinese/Indian children- it’s obvious that Americans really aren’t cut out to mass produce clothes. Like making cars and doing field work, foreigners do it better. Slave labor may be “morally repugnant and abhorrent to God,” but, damn it…well, has anyone even LOOKED in American Apparel lately? It’s terrible! NIGHTMARISH! It’s so ugly that if it ISN’T abhorrent to God, it should be. It certainly offends me.
In my opinion, our stimulating the economy of some down-and-out country across the sea (or the border) is much more humanitarian of us than paying people in Los Angeles to make our clothes. Besides, with the exchange rate in some of these countries, we can spend like $1 a day and they can eat like a king for a week- isn’t that the whole premise behind those Feed the Children ads I see on television? Peanuts a day and all that nonsense? To me, it seems like a win-win situation- our companies save money- money which they can later on invest in our economy- and the people making the clothes get paid and can, you know, eat or whatever.

All right, I’m getting on five pages, so I think I’m going to wrap this up. As my observations continue, I may have to add more chapters to my List of Things to Be Gotten Rid of or Shaken Like a Baby. I hope it was all you expected it to be.

Operation Smoke Out the Fatties

2009-02-26T12:52:00.000-08:00

Warning! The following blog may be considered offensive and in bad taste- just like me. You've been warned.

Because I had a spare moment between chipping away at the iceberg of homework I’ve been carrying around and crying, I thought perhaps I’d take a moment to clear out my brain and write a blog. As usual, I have every intention of ranting about what’s been driving me mad these past few weeks. If this isn’t your bag, feel free to skip this over. Otherwise…well, you know the drill. Strap in or whatever it is you do before reading my blog.
I had a fairly horrific encounter with the Forces of Stupidity at work the other day. I’d had to go to the bathroom in the absolute worst way for hours when I finally got a spare moment to close up show and go to the bathroom. The bathrooms next to the store are arranged in a sort of cul-de-sac hallway- the men’s bathroom faces the women’s, and between them is the family restroom. I came into this little cul-de-sac to discover the following scene- a morbidly obese Hispanic woman in an electric wheelchair was “stuck” in the doorway of the family restroom. The only thing she could say was “scusa” and “so-ree.” I find it necessary to point out the woman’s ethnicity because I feel like being insensitive and controversial, and also because it made it impossible to explain to her how to get out of her “predicament.” Well, I guess that’s not right for me to imply- I could have explained it well enough in Spanish, but I didn’t particularly care to at the time, and, well, I’m also not particularly nice in any event. She was not blocking my bathroom door, but she had entirely blocked access to the women’s restroom. I stood watching the following scene unfold with mingled shock and…well, I guess hilarity is the best word. Mingled shock and hilarity. The woman proceeded to back up into the doorjamb of the women’s restroom, then go forward into the family restroom doorjamb. Then back up again into the women’s restroom, then go forward. Then go back, then go forward. Then go back, then go forward. Each time repeating “scusa” and “so-ree.” She repeated this motion at least fifteen times while I watched. Literally 15 times. There were women backing up into the restroom, frowning and getting pissy and such, as though it were suddenly all their time of the month at the same time. One of them, an older woman, was getting angry and started trying to tell the woman what to do, and she could only shake her head and say “scusa, scusa, so-ree,” as she continued to go back and forth between the two doorjambs.
The funny thing is, it never occurred to her to just turn the wheel to steer into the family restroom and then back up. Again, I appeared to be the only person capable of explaining this to her, but needless to say I said nothing. Unless you count laughing as talking. At this point, I went into the bathroom, and could hear the women outside growing progressively more frustrated and loud as I enjoyed a leisurely poop. It was almost soothing, the sound of a bunch of women screaming for the blood of the Stranger. Almost soothing, but not quite.
I’m sure all of my three readers know that stupidity is just about my least favorite thing in the world. But I’m not writing this about stupidity. Rather, I’ve another point to make, and that’s about fat people.
To clarify, I’m not talking about husky people or thick people or even obese people. I don’t really care what you do to your body as long as I don’t have to pay for it or have sex with it (fucking a fatty ≠ hilarity; I know from experience). But what I can’t understand is why we would give the morbidly obese a wheelchair. Somehow, this feels like rewarding people for bad behavior. If a person has a legitimate disorder, like they have no feet or something, I can understand why they might become obese and I support their use of a wheelchair. But I have no patience or sympathy for those people that are physically and mentally able to take care of themselves but choose not to, or, even worse, those that are- gasp!- poor and can’t afford healthy food. Believe me, I know all about eating my feelings and having skewed relationships with food. A lot of us do. I also know about going on a starvation diet to save money and lose weight (it works great on both counts! As long as you don’t mind minor hair and tooth loss). But still, a lot of us also don’t become fatties.
Wait, what am I saying? Yes they do- this is America.
In any event, why are we giving these people electric wheelchairs to roll their fat asses around when they can’t even take care of themselves enough to not become morbidly obese? Many of these people are in the public healthcare system (if you can call our public healthcare system that). Why am I paying the money that I scrimped and starved for into a system that will reward people for being fat and lazy? I am well aware of the fact that the electric wheelchairs at the mall aren’t paid for out of my pocket, but it’s the principal of it, dammit. These people should be forced to walk about, rather than using electric wheelchairs, so that they might burn some calories. It makes me feel even worse when I see the single old widows shambling about the mall, literally slower than a tortoise, with no one to help them and no way to get around. I’d love ot help but, well, it just can’t be asked and theoretically I’m bound by an invisible fence to the front of my store (haha).
I’ve come to two conclusions about this. As fat people aren’t going away any time soon, I’d rather do one of two things with the morbidly obese. I would rather a) have a fund in the public healthcare system for them to get gastric bypass, which then saves money on both food and their medical problems in the long run, or b) get them all addicted to smoking and just pay for their cancer treatment. Most of the morbidly obese are poor and will probably die in non-cancer related incidents, anyway, like getting hit by a stray bullet in a gang war, taking a piece of crash-shrapnel to the head at a NASCAR race or any sort of funny and unexpected death at a cockfight. Smokers pay numerous taxes on their product- might as well get the fatties addicted to cigarettes, which are more heavily taxed, than food, so that they’re paying more into the system through taxes and they’ll lose weight; if the French are any example, smoking keeps you thin.
Aside from the fact that Operation Smoke Out the Fatties will kill a bunch of birds with one stone, it will also, hopefully, push people to curtail some of the ridiculous public smoking bans that are in place at the moment, and get people to take those stupid Anti-Smoking ads off television. Because let’s face it- we should be pushing Anti-Obesity ads like we push anti-drug and anti-smoking campaigns, but as they’re not the cause célèbre at the moment, and there’s a lot more money from big corporate sponsorship in the terms of food production and consumption, I’ll never happen.
I suppose I can get of my soapbox now. I’m getting bored of this conversation. I’m off to go eat a steaming pile of McDonald’s French fries and chicken McNuggets before washing it down with a supersize Coke and a Big Mac. I’m lovin’ it.

Just How Old Am I?

2009-02-12T00:36:00.001-08:00

In keeping with this week's them of "WTF?!" I had another wonderful experience today, in class of all places (sometimes I forget that things happen to me outside of work or dreams). A fellow student in my translation class recently turned 21 (Happy Birthday, Alayna!) and I made the comment, after she had mentioned that she had no intention of drinking yet ended up in the cups anyway, that "21 is a Golden Age; you live in a state of grace. Everything is always an adventure."
She laughed, and asked me what 22 was like, to which I responded, as always, "YOU GET FAT. And at 23, well, it's all down hill from there."
She chuckled, when our other fellow student- who we'll call Mac, for the convenience of it- turned to me and said, "OMG You're 23?!" I nodded, and she looked surprise, saying- and I quote- "BUT YOU LOOK SO YOUNG FOR YOUR AGE."
I had to pause for a minute and think about this- what exactly does this mean? Before I made comment, I asked her how old I looked- she said "I...dunno...like, you know, 21?"
Which prompted me to say "I had no idea that 23 was so old, or that I looked so vivacious. Good to know I still have that youthful glow of 21!"

But really though...really? What does that even mean? I look "so young for my age?" I look 21?! I'm only 23! I had no idea that 23 was so old! Of course, the source is a bit skewed in this case- the girl is 19, if she's a day- but still, is there that big of a gap between myself and a 19 year old? I don't recall expecting to look exceedingly old at 23 when I was 19. I don't really expect to look old as it is until I'm at least 50ish.
I suppose this little bit of commentary just comes as an added blow after my secret shop the other week. When asked to describe my age in decades, my customers described me as "30's."
Thirties. Great. I haven't any idea what THAT even means....
...Seriously, though?! Seriously?

PS - No WONDER 311 sucks so much ASS. They're from Omaha. Talentless, backwater, garbage-spewing crap masters.

Day 3

2009-01-29T02:06:00.001-08:00

Day 3

http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dfvsrkmw_473xrfvfx

Day 2

2009-01-27T12:50:00.001-08:00

Day 2 is published here.

http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dfvsrkmw_3f9sh79gq

Please check my previous post, "I'm a writer?!" for details if you're curious.

I'm a writer?!

2009-01-26T13:56:00.001-08:00

So, I've put myself to a writing exercise. I'm going to be writing a short-ish novella, in one page entries, hopefully more or less daily. I'll post links on Facebook or my blog (www.eridax.blogspot.com) as they get posted. This is the first entry.

http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dfvsrkmw_2fn4bkcgd

PLEASE read it and make comments (if possible?). It's only one page long in Word format. Thank you.

A heinous gasbag (or, "Ew, he got it in my eye!"

2009-01-23T00:17:00.001-08:00

Today I had the pleasure of sitting through my Petrarchism lecture, number 3 of 10. Normally I don't bitch about my classes because they are very rarely so bad that I feel the need to bitch on paper...er, sur l'écran. But today really put me over the top.
I am a little confused about the exact nature of my Petrarchism seminar, confused because I'm conflicted as to how I feel about it. On the one hand, my professor is obviously exceedingly knowledgeable in the subject matter and wants to share with us what he knows. He makes the information accessible, and the workload isn't particularly overwhelming (I forget that 400 level classes are not all taught in the same way as my 480 class). But on the other hand, I feel at times that my professor sees us as potential work horses for his current pet project, the Petrarchism Wiki.
I'll be the first to say that I am a big believer in all things Wiki- Wikipedia, Wiktionary, Wikiquote; if it's got the prefix "wiki-" attached to it (or the prefix "lol-" as in "lolcat"...but that's another story) I've probably heard of it. This is the future of knowledge, folks, so get used to it.
But at the same time, it's forcing me to reconsider a longstanding beef I've had with the "Wikis aren't reliable as they aren't written by professionals" beef. In Wikipedia, as a general rule, a person has to cite sources and provide intertextual (and hypertextual) evidence when writing articles. Wikipedia also has copy editors, bias guidelines, &c, to ensure some standard of quality for the site.
The Petrarchism Wiki...not so much. I wouldn't feel so bad if this thing were being written by the doctorate students, but it's not- it's being written by everyone, myself included. And given the vagueness of the instructions and the relatively (almost alarmingly high) level of incomprehension amongst my fellow classmates, the chances of being led astray by this Wiki seem too high to justify using us as the primary writers.

That being said, I wanted to crap my pants today and fling the result at my professor. Today we had a guest speaker. Normally, I like guest speakers, as they provide a welcomed distraction from the usual routine of class and mix it up a little bit.
I did NOT like today's guest speaker.
Firstly, I don't appreciate being told to pull in elbow to elbow and shoulder to shoulder with my classmates. I don't touch other people. It's just not my thing. Having the professor insist that I come sit in extreme proximity with my classmates, abandoning my computer and my digital note-taking- when I'd already lugged my computer about all day so that I could use it to take thorough notes in his discussion, which is nearly impossible for me on paper- is like asking a vegan to eat beef. It's NOT OKAY. EPIC FAIL. The fact that he felt the need to emphasize that computers aren't necessary for note-taking, as the risk of distraction thanks to the Internet is too great, further lowered my opinion of him. If you ask me, a professor forbidding use of computers in his lectures is the equivalent of him taking the by-your-leave to be as unfocused, boring, unintelligent and scattered as he may well please. Professors of this sort, I find, generally believe that they deserve respect for the simple fact that they are professors, not because they are intelligent, focused, interesting, passionate or anything else worthy of my attention (for the good kind of professors, please see Leah Middlebrook, Evelyn Gould, Geraldine Poizat-Newcomb or Jesus Sepúlveda, among others). This professor hit on nearly every one of my pet peeves during the course of his two hour lecture.

To start off with, his immediate dismay that we had not invested the time to go investigate 16th and 17th century madrigal music in the library before coming to class was an immediate frustration- we come to class to learn about the madrigal; these things weren't assigned reading or listening, so who is he to expect this of us? I don't have time to spend my hours doing extra research that just might be discussed in a 3 hour seminar- I have a JOB and a college career, not to mention an ever-growing writing hobby to boot.
I am a competent note-taker. I am able to compress five sentences of lecture into one sentence of meaning. I consider this a useful ability. My main problem, though, is my inability to write by hand quickly enough to not miss all of the meanings- I need some processing time between absorption and compression of information, distillation of its essence, formulation of the sentence and then the act of writing, and about 90% of that time is in the writing. Thus, there are always a few points I miss because I'm busy processing, compressing and scribing onto my paper- which is completely prevented by using my computer (I can type about 95ish words a minute, which, apparently, is good- 99 wpm, counting transcription errors). For the first hour, he discussed techniques for the transcription of poetry into music and the shortcomings of the frottola musical verse, which, for those students unversed in musicology or music theory, is the equivalent of speaking in algebraic notation all the time. This wouldn't have bothered me too terribly much had he been speaking about SOMETHING RELATED TO PETRARCH OR OUR ASSIGNED TEXTS, rather than the oblique bullshit that he specialized in. Poetic transcription of poems into music in the madrigal form is not a close enough link to the Petrarchist style to require an hour's worth of discussion. Discussion of the Petrarchal nature of the madrigal and its origins and inspirations, perhaps- but how one makes a madrigal from a poem, no, and the musical effects for conveying poetic structure and emphasis in music, most certainly not. The fact that he didn't do this in a particularly coherent manner makes it entirely unpalatable to me- he has already belittled us by demanding we put away our computers to ensure we give him our full, undivided (and mostly undeserved) attention. He then has to add insult to injury by explaining his oblique references and mostly-irrelevant subject matter to us in a particularly scattered and round-about fashion?
When we FINALLY finished the endless discussion about the nature and origin of madrigals (only minimally touching on Petrarch, the [supposed] topic of this class), we delved into the text.

Let me perhaps explain something about myself to any professors that may see this: I don't come to class to be talked at or talk about things I already understand. I don't come to seminars to discuss concrete, unwavering answers to fixed questions. I come to class to discuss the things I don't understand and listen to a lecture about the nature of the information I'm expected to pick up. When we sit down with our readings and the first thing out of your mouth is "so, tell me what this text is about," I find myself pretty displeased. If this text is a poetic text, I'm not going to complain- poetry is always open for discussion and debate, and asking this question is really just an invitation to argue our viewpoints on a text (as none of them, generally, are right, only better or more poorly supported) which gets us thinking. But when you've asked us to read an explicative text on a subject about which we know little to nothing- a subject we've COME TO CLASS TO LEARN ABOUT- demanding that we recite the meaning and purpose of the text is just demeaning, as it presupposes that we're simply in the class to listen to you talk about your own opinions. Frankly, I don't have time for that. I have time to learn, to evaluate the opinions of others while forming my own- but if I've already formed an opinion on a well-understood text, I don't really need to sit in silence and get force-fed your opinion. If I don't understand a text because I don't have the background to understand (as is the case in regards to the Petrarchan madrigal), I expect to have the meaning of what I've read clarified and explained to me while I take notes and dissect the reading with this new understanding. The LAST thing I need is a lecture about how to read a text, i.e. searching for the thesis and understanding what an author is saying and why. THIS is the ultimate demeaning act. I know how to read a text. I know how to ferret out the information in it and understand what is being said, but ONLY IF I UNDERSTAND THE MATERIAL, WHICH IS WHAT I'M IN CLASS FOR. I know how to read algebra texts, but it doesn't mean I understand what is going on, because my algebra is very rusty. If I'm in an algebra class, I expect to be taught algebra, not to have a professor talk to me about the esoterica of the subject, and how my reading of the text is wrong while presupposing I have knowledge of the subject. Why would I bother to take a class in a subject I already fully understood?

But perhaps my biggest pet peeve, big enough to almost make me get up and leave the class, was his blatant condescension- which is ironic, as he spent twenty minutes discussing poetic register and how to avoid condescension or pretension in speech. I DO NOT APPRECIATE BEING ADDRESSED IN THE FOLLOWING MANNER:
"In general, I don't categorize myself as a [insert string of big, highly specialized and occult adjectives here]. I don't believe in [insert the "simpleton's equivalent" of the above adjectives here]. Rather, I'm a [more big, specialist adjectives here]. I like to [more little, layperson words here]."
Look, douche bag, if you're going to use words like "neo-modernist," "prescriptivist," "a priori" or "non-discurssive" in a sentence to describe yourself, don't condescend to then describe them in lay terms after the fact. If you're going to use the big words in the first place, you presuppose that we, your audience, understand- that is to say, you're affording us a modicum of intellectual respect. But when you then straight away explain those words with descriptive phrases of words no more than two syllables, you have suddenly ceased entirely to be respectful and have become completely condescending; what you're NOW saying is "I have a deep seated need to show off my intellect in all possible scenarios, but as I know none of YOU are smart enough to reach my level, I'll clarify things for you my sweet, simple students. Look how much smarter I am than you are, and how kind I am to clear things up for your tiny little uncomprehending minds!"

For someone that has just lectured us on rhetorical register, its uses and effects, you're CERTAINLY MISSING THE FUCKING MARK DURING YOUR OWN LECTURE. Or perhaps you just don't really understand what you're saying at all and just spitting up words that someone has forced into your head. I at times experience glimmers of compassion in my otherwise cold and hollow heart, so I'll assume that you really just don't get it and have spent a lot of time in the company of parrots, learning their art well.

Seriously. Speaking to me like I'm a child while at the same time so openly flaunting your own ego is probably the most frustrating thing I have ever experienced in academia. At least at this university I have been lucky enough to almost entirely avoid it while finding professors that are both quite willing to listen and accept both the incompleteness of their own knowledge and the validity of the ideas of their students. Unfortunately, I had to waste three hours of my life watching and listening to this heinous gasbag stroke his ego to orgasm all over the rest of us, so I guess one can't be lucky all the time. Oh well.

I feel better now, having vented. Out of "respect" for this obviously tactless professor (or, more likely, a desire not to get in trouble with the academic deities and demi-gods running the university) I'm leaving this professor nameless.

Where's my piece?!

2009-01-07T23:29:00.001-08:00

Apparently, Portland ties with San Antonio, Texas, for being the second most lustful (i.e. sexfilled) major city in the nation (Denver won). All I can think is: who ate my fucking piece of this sex pie?!

http://www.forbes.com/2007/12/17/health-lust-cities-forbeslife-cx_rr_1217health.html (link to slideshow at bottom)

The Annual Holiday Retail Blog, 2008

2009-01-05T20:36:00.000-08:00

Finally, it arrives! Sorry it’s taken me so long to crank this out, and let’s hope that it turns out to be something “interesting.”

Firstly, let me be clear- I’m not doing interviews on the New Year’s Event. Sorry.

Secondly, a quick recap of Christmas- BEST CHRISTMAS EVER. I love my family dearly, but I also love actual peace and quiet as much if not more. In my opinion, Christmas is just a day more or less like any other- I don’t need my family any more or less on that day to make it any more special. We make the best with what we have and we must be content with that. That being said, I loved my Christmas.
As a retail worker around the holiday season, I get to take part in the orgiastic free-for-all that is Christmas Shopping. I get to watch people stepping on each others’ necks for the best and/or last shirt/sweater/ring/video game/bottle of perfume/egg role. I get to see all the screaming and the shouting and the haranguing and the feigned Christmas spirit- anyone that works retail knows exactly what I’m talking about. This Christmas, a few new pet peeves have crept into my ever-expanding repertoire of bêtes noires. Let’s address them all here, shall we?

I’ll start by addressing the issue of getting stupid responses to valid questions. All right, I have a lot of tolerance for stupidity. I have to, as I work with the public. I can bear the stupidest questions in the world- “is this really the price?” or “do you have any secret discounts?” or, my personal favorite, “this is the Sunglass Hut? Do you have any sunglasses?” That last one mostly comes up in jest, but one would be surprised how often it comes up in seriousness. What I find I cannot bear is the following- it is entirely acceptable for a person to acknowledge while searching for sunglasses that they, at the moment, don’t have a clue what they are looking for (as searching for any accessory is often quite difficult). It is also acceptable to admit that one can’t explain why one does or doesn’t like something. What is NOT acceptable is anything resembling the following exchange.

Customer- excuse me, sir, I need your help.
Me- sure! How is our search going today? Do you have any specific questions you need answered?
Customer- well, I’m looking for some sunglasses.
Me- okay, that’s a start. Are we looking for sport, classic or fashion?
Customer- um, I don’t know. Like…well, like, you know, like, yeah. I need some sunglasses.
Me-……..okay. So do you want a plastic frame or a metal frame?
Customer- well, you know, like, I need something that’s like…well, you know, like…that’s all you know, you know?
Me-…………um, all right. So do you have a particular use in mind for them? Do you need them for sports, like skiing or snowboarding? Or perhaps fishing? Maybe you need them for driving? Or are you just looking for something that looks nice?
Customer- like, I need some sunglasses for…you know, like stuff and such, like that I can wear like, all the time, and…well, you know, while I’m doing stuff and all that.
Me-………………okay. So you need sunglasses you can wear. Is this correct?
Customer- YES!
Me-………………………..all right. Well, do you have a preferred brand, perhaps Prada or Oakley or Ray-Ban?
Customer- [blank look]
Me- [picking out a random pair of sunglasses to get the ball rolling] Okay, try these on and let’s see how they work out.
Customer- [trying on sunglasses]
Me- So, how are they?
Customer- well they’re all…you know, like….you know…they just…they’re all…you know.
Me-…..not…really? Are they too big or too small?
Customer- they’re like….well, look, you know.
Me- um…are they too sporty or too fashionable?
Customer- I think they’re…well, they’re like…well, I mean…you know…like…they’re…well, you know.
Me- well, can you tell me what you think is wrong with theme, in your own words?
Customer- well, they’re all just like…well, you know, with the like…um…well it’s like…all…you know, and stuff.

At this point, my head normally explodes. NO I DON’T KNOW, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING BOTHERING TO ASK MY HELP WHEN YOU CAN’T EVEN ANSWER A FUCKING SIMPLE QUESTION WITH TWO POSSIBLE ANSWERS- TWO, DOS, DEUX, DUE, 2, 01, ZWEI?! I am not out there asking you to describe every possible shade and tone of color present in the Michelangelo’s The Last Supper! I’m asking you to answer questions where I’m providing the answer for you! The words “uh,” “um,” “like” and “you know” are not words encoding information- at best, they are function words indicating that you are still planning speech; they are NOT informed, reasonable answers to my questions! Why are you bothering to even shop for anything at all if you can’t form a sentence that carries meaning at all?! When it comes to playing this horrible, horrible game, I have found that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, gay men are the worst. They are absolutely and completely unable to form an opinion on anything at all.

My next major pet peeve is the word “buddy.”
DO NOT EVER CALL ME “BUDDY.” I am not your “buddy;” I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you if the first words out of your mouth are “’sup buddy?” Buddy is an unacceptable form of address, ESPECIALLY when I am older than you are (a lot of college freshmen and sophomores seem to think it is now their right to use diminutives with people both larger and elder than they- this is NOT the case). Also, do not call me “kid,” “bro,” “bud,” “champ” or “tiger.” “Dude,” “man,” “mister,” “sir,” “guy” and “homes” (holmes?) are all perfectly acceptable, but DO NOT EVER PRESUME TO CALL ME BUDDY IF YOU ARE A PERFECT STRANGER. It is unacceptably presumptuous to suppose that I am one of your “buddies.” I have “buddies,” and you, sir, are not one of them. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?

Teenagers are also becoming an increasingly large annoyance to me. This was not previously the case, but then again, work (and life, actually) wasn’t like being buried neck deep in a landfill until I moved back to Eugene. Things change, I suppose.
Teenagers need not come into my store and presume I want to talk to them. I am perfectly happy to help them in a retail associate-customer relationship- I have no problem with this, even if they have no intention of buying anything. I DO have problems with the following questions-
- Do you have a girlfriend?
- Are you married?
- How much do you get paid?
- Do you ever just want to start yelling at customers when they are being stupid? (said without a trace of sarcasm; the irony on that one is generally almost enough for me to want to start busting skulls, but as I’m on camera, I have to restrain my natural URGE TO KILL)
- Can I have some of your dinner? (while I’m eating dinner)
- Do you go to high school around here? (I get that one far too often for comfort)
- So, like, what’s your most expensive sunglass in here? (after being shown the Versace sunglasses with Swarovski Crystal) OMG WUT SORT OF FAG WULD PAY THAT MUCH $$$$ 4 SUNGLASSES SRSLY! (I put it in AIM speak to emphasize their idiotic tones of voice)

Just to clarify- I AM NOT AT WORK TO BE YOUR PERSONAL DANCING MONKEY, NOT FOR $8/HOUR I’M NOT. Shut up and do your business in the store, then get the hell out so I can clean up after your sorry ass. I don’t have any desire to converse with about the fact that your junior varsity football team has a game coming up and you need some shades to “look dank to pull some chicks.” YOU’RE FUCKING SIXTEEN YEARS OLD! I think having two older brothers was enough to pound it into my head that at 16, I was pretty much a piece of social flotsam worthy of nothing more than whatever attention my by chance fall upon me. I find that the vast majority of the 16 year olds traipsing around the mall need to have that same lesson pounded into their heads, preferably by an industrial sledge hammer, or one of those jack-hammers used to break up heavy concrete blocks.

I am also exceedingly discomfited by the teenage girls that find themselves to be exceedingly attractive and flirt with me. Aside from the fact that I THOUGHT I was obviously homosexual, the entire scenario that they seem to propose is just alarming. These girls come crawling in from their BFE high schools (I’m looking at you, Veneta, Cottage Grove and Roseburg) and think they’re pretty enough to flirt up a storm with every man they see. First of all- there be somethin’ in the water out in these places, because these girls are oogly. I cannot describe the sorts of deformities I’ve seen, especially in the tooth region- and I thought I’d seen everything when I met the Spanish girl who had prehensile upper teeth (I swear to God!). Apparently, I was wrong. I am not being paid enough to stand around and get hit on by ugly girls from the countryside. This is NOT APPEALING TO ME. At least, it’s about as appealing as staring down the business end of a shotgun for being a professed sodomite, which I expect is what I'd encounter if I ever worked up the courage to investigate the source of these hideous monstrosities calling themselves "girls" (and "human"). But then again, that’s just me.

I try really hard not to be a brand snob, and believe me, I’ve had to become a LOT more tolerant after moving to Eugene because, well, this place is a dumping ground for human garbage, something like the Pacific Trash Vortex is for ocean trash. But after watching the people pacing back and forth in the mall, it’s time I made a special announcement to clear things up for people. Please listen carefully-
AÉROPOSTALE IS NOT A LEGITIMATE BRAND OF CLOTHING TO WEAR IF YOU ARE OVER THE AGE OF 15! Please get this through your heads. I am begging you. If I see one more 35 year-old man sporting an Aéropostale polo-shirt with the collar popped, I’m going to hang myself from my own entrails- and I’m about 78% serious on that one. Let me explain to you folks about the nature of Aéropostale. The story goes something like this.
In terms of our hierarchy of “lifestyle brands” in the teen market, the top is dominated by the Abercrombie and Fitch-Hollister duo, exporting a very particular and “exclusive” image of WASP origins (no need to explain why various activist groups have successfully sued them for racial discrimination in their hiring policies). Like it or not, the fact that they charge as much as they do to weed out the poor, their company legitimately began in 1892 and the fact that they continue to attract their desired clientele (in shape white kids with ‘money’), their image keeps on chugging along, a juggernaut of sorts in the teenage and 20-something social circles (remember, a whole generation of us has grown up in the shadow of the A&F brand image). Stepping down one tier from the top we have American Eagle, which takes the basic styles of Abercrombie and adds its own touches- brighter colors, more vibrant, if gaudier patterns, slightly lower quality and durability- while also dialing down the price (often times only half of what Abercrombie charges for similar items). American Eagle does a decent job of appropriating the preppy style typified by Abercrombie and Fitch designs and “making it their own,” while also managing to preserve some suggestion of the original flavor of the style.
But then you have Aéropostale. A copy of a copy. Aéropostale hasn’t had an original idea since its inception, save to make the same clothes found at American Eagle even gaudier, brighter, uglier and cheaper. I didn’t realize American Eagle could be made less expensive than it already was, but then I remembered that if you completely abandon all standards of design and quality, it becomes real easy to do. Aéropostale is the teenage, lower-class, prêt-à-porter “lifestyle brand” that’s equivalent to the tenth generation photo-copy of a photograph- useless, ugly garbage that bears no resemblance to whatever was originally in the picture. I ask myself what sort of life-style are they hoping to showcase- one-step above poverty level and shockingly unaware of the fashion trends that have come and gone over the past year? Going out in a flashy Aéropostale polo with the collar popped screams “I desperately want to fit into this lifestyle and income bracket but fail miserably and am too blind to realize it! I also am dangerously out of touch with modern culture and class, as popped collars went out AGES ago for everyone except young teens!” (who have carte blanche to do as they please because they’re basically retarded, regardless of how you slice the pie). For the love of God, I don’t care if people under 22-ish continue to shop at Aéropostale- and oddly enough, I don’t notice nearly as many girls flaunting their “goods” from that store- but please, please, PLEASE, we DON’T need a newsletter announcing that you have no taste or class. Stick to the generic graphic tees and the jeans, please, and if you MUST wear the patterned polo, put your fucking collar down and wear a coat. And if you're over 25 wearing Aéropostale, ...well, I guess I more or less just have sympathy for you in your a) ignorance and b) apparent poverty, as sporting Aéropostale like it's the latest and greatest is, well, just sad. Probably almost as sad as the energy I invest in my blogs thinking that someone might read it some day (but I can pretend, right?)

I feel the need to touch on everyone’s favorite holiday mall subject, whether you’re just a mindless consumer or a mindless slave in the retail engine- CHILDREN IN THE MALL. I am only going to tell you parents this once- DO NOT BRING YOUR CHILDREN TO THE MALL until they can mind themselves, obey your commands and speak in full sentences, with subjects and predicates. There are NO EXCUSES short of “my baby-sitter was decapitated by a runaway chainsaw this afternoon” or “I just gave birth in the woman’s restroom” that are acceptable.

Another thing that people need to get through their heads would make everyone’s life much easier- or at least I like to think it would- is the rules of Mall Traffic. When walking in the mall, obey the rules of the road. Firstly, if you are walking slowly, keep to the right. Allow those people in a hurry to pass you on the left. I have yet to be in a shopping mall anywhere that does not have some sort of middle divider down its walking arcades, whether it be a physical division, stalls and kiosks or visual displays and benches- for the love of God, walk on the right, just as you drive on the right, and treat each side as you treat the sides of a freeway. When approaching a blind corner, slow down and use caution. If you intend to stop, pull out of the walking areas, so as to allow others to pass- DO NOT STOP IN THE MIDDLE AND BLOCK TRAFFIC. If you need to make a turn or exit the walking area, do so in a timely manner. DO NOT form groups walking abreast at the same speed- move in small groups in a single file line, or as close to that ideal as conversation allows. And most importantly, STAY ALERT. Seriously. I am to the point where I just want to start stepping on people because they form huge groups and move at a glacial pace (which just thrills me).

I will warn all of you that like shopping at night of the following- I like night shopping as well as the next fellow, but for the love of GOD- do NOT walk into a store in the mall at 9:01pm (or however many minutes past closing time) and expect to be allowed to shop. You are not the Queen (or King) of England. Stores (save for the anchor stores like Macy's or Nordstrom) in the mall close when the mall closes, and you don’t get special treatment just because you happen to be in the mall past closing time. I will admit that I have been known to sneak into a store at 2 minutes to close and do a little quick shopping- this is not a technical violation of Retail Etiquette (it’s roughly equivalent to, say, returning a gift that someone has given you for something you like more). What is unacceptable is waltzing into a store at even one minute past the closing time and expecting to both shop and be served. WE POST MALL HOURS FOR A REASON. IF YOU COME IN PAST THEM, YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO EXPECT SERVICE! Not only is it rude but its also condescending to assume that we have no better place to be than serving you. The moment that the clock strikes the appropriate hour and the last customer is out the door, we are FREE of the burden of serving your sorry, disrespectful ass. We get paid to suck up between the fixed hours as posted by the mall or on the outside of our store- NOT during the hours you feel may be appropriate. I don’t care if you intend to spend $5,000 during the ten minutes past closing (okay, maybe that’s a lie, but you get what I’m saying), I don’t want you in my store- I want to close the store, go home and pretend that I have a life (again, we can all pretend, right?).

Perhaps the last thing I will comment on is a bit more deep than the previous sections of this rant, but it’s also a bit shorter. It really saddens me that we feel the need to perpetuate the myth that during the Christmas season we embrace the ideals of “peace, love and charity,” when in reality we all become even more possessive, selfish and greedy than during the rest of the year combined- myself included. In the same vein as my earlier comment about Christmas, why does it have to be this time of year that we feel this way? Why can’t it be all year? I’d much rather just give up the charade of Christmas Good Will and all that hoo-haw-bullshit and acknowledge that we need to be better people, not just during Christmas, but during the entire year. I’m starting to think that perhaps the Jews had the right idea with their Yom Kippur…

Well, that’s it for now, all. The yearly Holiday Retail Blog is done- and only a few weeks late to boot.

New Years?

2009-01-04T16:50:00.000-08:00

Forthcoming- the Annual Holiday Retail Blog.
In other news, the New Year is hear and my first resolution is go to the gym. My second is to completely abandon what little faith I had in the concepts of Hope, Goodness and the utility of sympathy, empathy and charity. I suppose it's just disheartening to find out that one's idols and paragons really do have clay feet. Oh well.

Winter Storm 08 - AKA Christmas Fail

2008-12-22T17:36:00.000-08:00

The winter storm in Eugene consists of...rain, with a near certain chance of extreme annoyance. The storm blew through the 401 last week and is now entirely gone.
Not so for my acquaintances in Portland. Still gripped in the icy hands of Old Man Winter, Christmas, it appears, is cancelled for me. I'm going to shoot for a Round 2 on New Year's Day, but that, obviously, remains to be seen. Even the Greyhound and Amtrak have been canceled!
Well, here's to spending the Xmas season in the Huge Euge. I'll keep everyone updated on my progress.

Thanks for the support! (and the sarcasm!)

2008-12-21T22:53:00.001-08:00

Good to know that my homeland has my support on the international stage. And the Middle East, too.

http://en.wikinews.org/wiki/International_controversy_over_UN_declaration_to_stop_anti-homosexuality_legislation?curid=118458

June 17th, 2003

2008-12-19T13:09:00.000-08:00

I picked the date of the title more or less at random.
Do me a "favor." Try very hard to remember precisely the things you did on the 17th of June five years ago. Where were you? What did you do that day? Were you in school still or had you graduated or were you on summer vacation? Were you working?
I'd be willing to bet that the vast majority of people don't have any clue what they did that day- I'm talking concrete, clear memories, the kind of memories we have of birthdays and holidays, births and deaths, traumatic events and the like. Think about that for just a little bit. At the time, and the days after, that one day probably seemed like any other day; it probably wasn't particularly remarkable, a day just like any other. And you probably don't have a single real memory of that day- /not a one./
Try this for just about any day that's not within, oh, the last 3 or 4 months. And don't cheat by looking at a calendar or diary.
The vast majority of our days slip away into the oblivion of that which is forgotten without a second thought. While the days of our lives leave a collective mark on us- forming the people we Are- the individual days slip by and disappear as if they never were. All of the struggles of that day- what to where, what to eat, where to go, things to do, friends to see and talk to and laugh with and fight with- all of that is gone, leaving almost no trace at all.
Just imagine what happens to our lives and the memories we leave to others when we die.

If you liked Jingle Cats...?

2008-12-14T18:45:00.000-08:00

If bad-ish German techno-pop (sung in English) set to odd car commercials from the late 80s or early 90s is your thing, then check out this link. It's...weird to say the least, I suppose. Actually, it's kind of cool. Just check it out. Dia, this is kind of for you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApL5E7ChDzE

Let them eat cake...er, soy!

2008-09-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

So, apparently, Paul McCartney's ex wife plans on donating one million dollars worth of soy burgers and soy dogs to the Hunts Point neighborhood, and this donation is going to be announced just before the Hunts Point Back to School Fair. Now, on the one hand, kudos. Giving to the poor is always great.
But at the same time...Heather Mills is a vegan and animal rights activist with more money than brains. These people are poor and need help- giving them vegan hot dogs and hamburgers...er, okay. While she is quoted as saying she wants the children ""have as many nutritional advantages as anyone else," I get the same feeling on reading those words as when reading about a certain French queen who suggested that the poor, upon running out of bread, "eat cake" (or, perhaps, brioche). I highly doubt that spending one million dollars on vegan food counts as giving them a particularly advantageous nutritional advantage- sure, better than burgers and fries by a long shot, but what about vitamins? Enriched foods? Vegetables and fruits? Most of these kids probably won't even like these foods, and yet...well, Heather Mills needs to make a statement on behalf of her agenda, and "Helping the Poor" is always a great way to make a statement. Congrats to you, Heather, on taking one big step forward into the limelight to forward your own causes under the guise of generosity.

read the story here.

PS- more to come later (i.e. updates)

Cooking for Two?

2008-09-07T03:27:00.000-07:00

I never knew that shopping for cookbooks could be so depressing.
Well, perhaps depressing is the wrong word. Perhaps "single awarenessifying" is a better phrase.
I spent most of yesterday planning my new apartment (yay!) that I am set to have in Eugene come Wednesday. Unsurprisingly, this apartment comes with a kitchen, which, being the CDO gay man that I am, means that I have to buy at least 3 cookbooks. I had no idea though- Powell's organizes its cookbooks in what can only be described as a hostile order- they put all the cookbooks for single college students above the cookbooks intended for those that are "cooking for two." Thus, I spent most of my time hunting for cookbooks for the poor, single college student sifting through books labeled "Kissing in the Kitchen," "Cooking Brings You Together," "Love Food for Two," and the like.
Since when did cooking become the next major amorous twosome activity? Last time I checked, cooking was horrible. Cooking evolved burning pots, ruined linoleum floors and terrible, indescribable smells. Cooking was what you did when you were in my shoes- almost 23, single, poor and too lazy to leave the house. Cooking is not what you do when you have a significant other- you pool your resources (hopefully...am I wrong to be hopeful?) and you go out and get meals at great restaurants. You cook at home when romance demands it (i.e. on holidays, birthdays and anniversaries).
I guess this is bothering me because, once again, I'm preparing to head back to Eugene, and thus I'm preparing to head back to 9-12 months of celibacy. Last week I tried to commit to celibacy, but I ended up getting laid within about 5 hours of making the pledge to myself. This time around (since I'm moving on Wednesday), I highly doubt that I'll be as...well, promiscuous might be the wrong word. But this time around I fully intend to NOT get my guts all screwed up within 24 hours of my oath. After all, I've just spent a good $20 buying cookbooks for single college students. I have no intention of having any random sex, so if I'm not cooking for two, then what am I up to?

The Eye of Baghdad?

2008-08-30T02:38:00.001-07:00

So, apparently, according to Adel al Ardawi (a municipal spokesperson for the city), a large Ferris wheel, larger than the Eye of London is going to be built in Baghdad to bring in tourists.
I am forced to observe- isn't there a WAR in Baghdad right now? I mean, it's not exactly the fault of the Iraqis, but they most certainly have a war going on right now, not to mention a terrorist problem all over their country.
Unsurprisingly, a spokesperson for the United Kingdom's Foreign Office has said that "the security situation in Iraq remains highly dangerous with a continuing high threat of terrorism throughout the country."
Duh!
Anyone else smell pork project and Epic Problem Prioritization Fail?!

DONER KEBAB COMES TO PORTLAND!

2008-08-24T00:26:00.000-07:00

So, for those of you that have ever studied abroad in Europe (or, apparently, Eastern Canada), you have probably chanced upon a tasty little Turkish delicacy that is all the rage in terms of fast food- it's called a Doner Kebab. Wikipedia will tell you that they're made with pita bread, lettuce and lamb or what have you, but I'm personally convinced that it's actually ground-up tasty pixies and deliciousness fairies, conveniently disguised as familiar foods, because the foods they look like in NO WAY could ever combine without some sort of supernatural intervention to taste as amazing as a Doner Kebab tastes. In any event, the West Coast is severely lacking in these indescribably scrumptious delicacies.

OR IS IT?!

I don't know what got me searching this out, but apparently one can find Doner Kebab's in Portland, Oregon; right in our own backyard!
I was initially skeptical of this, but I have found photographic evidence (please see link below)-

http://www.rickglos.com/post/2008/07/Douml%3bner-Kebab.aspx

No joke. Doner Kebabs exist in Portland, Oregon.
Just one little problem- THE BLOGGER FORGOT TO POST THE ADDRESS OF THE FUCKING RESTAURANT. I am trying really hard not to be angry about this, but, dammit, it's finding a wallet full of money, turning it in to the police and then having someone claim it at the last possible minute before it's yours. Somehow, this doesn't feel fair. If you look at the photos, you can see that it is located at 517, somewhere. I propose that we all go out and figure out where this place is, or use the Internet to find it (I already tried Google Maps, and that failed).
Well, good luck to all of us Kebab lovers.

Release Your Inner Porn Star?

2008-08-20T23:48:00.001-07:00

I was surfing around once again on manhunt, not so much because I was looking to hook up (I'm not) but rather to see if there were any pretty folk floating about on the internet and what not. There were a number, but I got bored pretty quickly because it won't let me change my personal ad, so I was going to sign off...when I discovered something.
They intersperse ads for other porn sites between the personal ads on the website. I was logging out of my account when an ad came up, an ad for a new porn site called "OnTheHunt.Com."
I'm not normally one to get sucked in by porn ads (because as most of you know, I have my preferred porn sites already) but something about this one struck me- it advertises "Real ManHunt Members, Real Hookups, Filmed by Real Porn Stars!"
Now, hold the phone a minute.
I am, last time I checked, a "real ManHunt member," as I have a ManHunt account and I've used it before. I've tried to make porn (just for myself, of course, and for only my ex and I to watch) and let me tell you: while I am actually quite content with myself physically (I am a realist, and I look pretty good. Not perfect, of course, but quite good enough), but I don't want a porn star to look like me- I want my porn stars to be physical manifestations of corporeal perfections, which is to say tall, dark, handsome, with a big dick, nice eyes, cut body, big arms, and a full head of hair (unless it's been shaved). I don't care if you're lacking in even one quality, I don't want to see you in my porn (in my bed is another matter entirely; a porn star belongs on my computer screen, a real human being in my bed).
When did it become a good idea to start filming Internet hook-ups? No joke. I think I'd rather be dead than have my hook-ups turned into porn movies (I mean, as of yet). I'd rather be shot in the face twice and live. I'd rather live in Los Angeles!
In any event, what the hell is pornography coming to? Have we done every raunchy, terrible, crazy thing out there, so that now we have to start video taping anyone and everyone that has sex? Filming the hook-ups of Real ManHunt Members (and I've seen plenty of them), to me, is a horrific idea, in the same class of Horrific Ideas as "Having Sex with an Endangered Species," or "Japanese Transvestite School Girl Tentacle Gangbang" or "Anything Involving American Football." Perhaps we've now run out of adequate porn stars. Or perhaps we have all just become so over-exposed to porn (see the South Park episode, "Over Logging") that we need a new face every second of every day.
Do we all have a bit of the porn star in us all, perhaps? Is that partly why this site exists at all, because it scratches some hidden (or exposed?) itch we all have, somewhere inside of us?
I'm really not sure at all. The only thing I really do know is that this web-site freaks me out, and makes me all the more afraid to use ManHunt to hook-up with people. STDs are scary, sure. But being caught in a porn movie is possibly the worst thing ever.

Bigfoot?

2008-08-15T23:10:00.001-07:00

I recently texted a very large number of people about the announcement on the radio that a Bigfoot corpse has been found in Georgia (the US state, not the country. An awfully large number of people seemed to think they were talking about the country in the Caucasus. Seriously. There's no Bigfoot there. Seriously.)
Well, it appears that the original release date for the press conference (which was going to be today) has been pushed back until the "autopsy" is done. A lot of people have questioned the veracity of this find (I heard the report on Z100, if that's any indication). I would like to think it's actual proof of Bigfoot, but Georgia seems a really strange place to find the creature, as he appears to be a native of the Pacific Northwest. I also speculated, though, that it seems an awful lot like a viral marketing campaign.
Also seems like Wikinews agrees with me on that front. Check out the article below, folks-

http://en.wikinews.org/wiki/%27Bigfoot%27_hunters_claim_to_have_found_corpse_of_mythical_creature_in_Georgia,_USA

PROBLEM MAJOR

2008-07-31T00:51:00.001-07:00

All right. I realized today that I have a very large problem. I mean, really, really large.
I semi took someone (else) home last Friday, and, yeah, it was...fun. It's a friend of mine I've known on and off with for about a year (since last summer, I guess) but we've started hanging out more (a lot more) since I've been home for summer and...well, that's about all the descriptors I'm going to put out there.
We've been hanging out. He's met my friends and they like him. I've met his brother/sister and some of his friends and they seem to like me (I hope? I think?).
I've been attracted to him for ages (this is sort of public domain knowledge) and I've had a crush on him as well (also public domain knowledge). We had a DTR (that's Determine the Relationship, for those of you not in the know) a few weeks ago when I went to hang out with him for the evening, and we agreed (I think) that we were attracted to each other but that we weren't going to act on it (for a lot of different reasons).

Then comes Friday, and my good friend alcohol. Yeah, about that...so, side note. Last Friday, I had been working all week, I was exhausted and bored and craving being social. I went over to my dad's, got about a bottle and half of wine deep and was going to go home...before I got invited to go downtown with Dia Tequila and Robyn. And then my Friend called and we got him to join us downtown.
Unsurprisingly, we all got in a fight with alcohol and we all lost (big fucking surprise, right?"). I had said I would give my Friend a ride home in the morning and that he could crash at my place. I have enough room on my couch and such for me...
Things didn't quite turn out that way. After my mother wakes up while we're getting ready to bed down, she spends a good...what, hour, or so showing him pictures of when I was little and officially embarassing the shit out of me. I'm talking the kind of things you show your date after a YEAR of dating...not 0 (zero) dates. Epic Mother Fail, seriously. So, we finally escape her clutches (I don't want to talk about it) and I take a shower while he gets ready for bed.

I'm sure you can all put the pieces together of what happened after that.

And so now I have this problem. I'm trying to, you know, just avoid it and not think about it, just let it be cool. Normally this wouldn't be a problem or anything. We didn't fuck, but...well, stuff happens, you know, it's not a big deal. I've had sex for money before, so this was nothing major.

Or, it wouldn't have been a big deal, if I didn't realize today that I have my Problem Major.

I like him. I don't have a crush on him. I don't have the hots for him. I don't just want to bone (or get boned by) him. I like him.

Shit. Shit shit shit. For those of you that don't know already, I have a really bad track record for summer flings...but oh, well, what can I do? What DO I do?

How can I tell I like him? I get all confused and awkward and nervous around him now, and I want to, you know, look at him and be funny and nice to him and...be around him. I NEVER WANT TO BE AROUND BOYS! I HATE BOYS! THEY'RE FUN WHEN I'M MOLESTING THEM IN A BAR, BUT I DON'T EVER WANT TO BE AROUND THEM LIKE THAT! AND HOW OFTEN AM I AWKWARD AND NERVOUS AROUND MY FRIENDS? WHEN DO I NOT HAVE AN OPINION?!
Yes, my friends, this is a serious, serious problem. Like cancer, only worse, because it's neither fatal nor can it be treated. (So I guess maybe it's like herpes?)
Gods above and below, what's a boy to do?

And to round out the night, a Sex and the City quote-
"Of course it's okay. I was Alice in Confused Sexual Orientation Land."

WTFAIL?!

2008-07-28T00:29:00.001-07:00

Okay, so, yeah, someone can't spell the word "laboratory." But I'm wondering less about the English Fail here than I am about the fact that we have a "National Medical Laboratory Professionals' Week." I mean, really- who bombed out of their life so bad that they got to sit on the council that decided, "We don't have enough non-officially and totally pointless holidays- let's have a week dedicated to those oh-so-important medical laboratory professionals." Seriously.
Epic Life Fail.

Also, on that note-

"+++ Divide By Cucumber Error. Please Reinstall Universe And Reboot +++"

Almost Famous

2008-07-20T22:05:00.001-07:00

Jesus Christ. Well, someone is doing an excellent job at clawing their way out of suburban Oregon and moving up in the World. I'm hoping that I'm on that same route, albeit a bit more slowly than some. Kudos to Ryan Black for making something of himself. Seriously- props to you, Ryan. I'll make sure to get Professionally Drunk in your honor at some point in the near future (and quite possibly in your vicinity as well). Everyone feel free to check out my former classmate's first (?) visual evidence of success. And send him some props, he deserves it.

Check it-
http://x17online.com/
He's down with the two girls next to the Sopranos ad.

The Dating Kind

2008-07-13T14:14:00.001-07:00

Am I out of my mind?
Yesterday probably proved to be the most interesting day I've had all summer long.
After having taken a personal evening for myself the night before, I woke up around 1pm to take a personal early afternoon to go over to the pool and lay in the sun for an hour, reading. I got a nice sunburn on the upper part of my chest and neck, before heading to the liquor store and then to work.
This is where things went a little...off the deep end.
I get to work and am walking towards my store when who should I see but the Boy of the Wasted Summer.
I haven't spoken to this guy in almost a year because I can't bear the thought of forgiving him for what happened between us. I have tried really, really hard to forgive him and somehow it just isn't in me to forgive and forget. I absolutely cannot. It's a sort of anger, perhaps an irrational hatred that has consumed every last inch of me. I don't act on it much but...it's something born out of such an affront to my dignity, such an affront to my worth as a human being that every ounce of me has been tainted by what he did.
I ran into the Boy of the Wasted Summer modeling underwear outside UnderU4Men.
I shit you not. Standing on a pedestal outside of the underwear store, approximately 50 feet from the entrance to my store, wearing nothing but his skivvies. Well, someone's skivvies. I was speechlessly and irrationally angry for the following hour.

But the day turned up. I invited my friend Jimmy, an actual friend of mine, to go out with us for my Gay Bash of Mourning for my uncle, and after work, we cleaned up, met my Friends (Deborah, Branden, Zach and Robyn) before heading downtown where we basically fagged it up and I drank enough alcohol to kill ten undersized, undernourished models of alcohol poisoning. We went to both Red Cap/Boxxes and also to Silverado, where I forced a girlfriend to put a dollar in the Drama Stripper's underwear...and voila. We narrowly avoided a harrowing experience of police brutality by skirting a huge riot between the Police and a bunch of Rappers or whatever outside of a downtown bar, and then split up for our cars and headed home. Deborah drove me and Jimmy home, Jimmy first, and that was about that.

It got me thinking, though. Jimmy was talking a lot about sexual tension and mistakes and a bunch of other things. I could neither follow the thread of this conversation nor understand what he was really talking about, but when he left at the end of the drive home, it left me feeling vaguely depressed.

Am I cursed never to find a nice, normal guy to date, someone that can get along with my friends and such? I'll acknowledge the fact that I'm quite attracted to Jimmy on a number of different levels, but there's nothing I can do about it, and I have to acknowledge that, too. I'm too smart (and, perhaps, too weary and jaded) to make an inopportune move now, and I've too much foresight to even bother considering that I could make something work with someone over this summer. Going back to school, working as much as I do (and yeah, I have a very demanding social schedule that's very important to me)...things just aren't going to work.

I see some of my friends (All right, all of my friends, and even my enemies) jumping from relationship to relationship. How do people do this? How the hell do people find boyfriends so easily, just jumping from man to man to man? Where are all these extra men and why can't I find any? I don't even need to find the right one, I just want to find SOMEONE to fill some time in my life. I acknowledge that right now isn't really the right time in my life for me to be seeing someone, but what the hell, when WILL it be the right time?
Aside from the fact that I am, apparently, obviously bitter about some of the things that have happened in my past, I actually feel like I am worth something. I don't seem to suffer from the crippling personality defects (aside from my assortment of neuroses) that seem to haunt the vast majority of gay men I run across (most of my friends excluded). I know that I'm not ugly, but I know that I'm not the most beautiful guy walking around out there, which, honestly, is fine with me. I am sort of funny, and I am fairly articulate at most times (if a bit sarcastic).
I'm starting to think that it's my karma catching up with me. I pride myself on not being a total asshole, on being able to forgive and forget. But what about the Boy of the Wasted Summer? I can't forgive him- is that tidbit of bad man karma (although as I was told, recently, that all karma is bad and dharma is good...whatever) dragging me down like a ball and chain while I try to stay afloat in a sea of men? Do I have to forgive and forget and just suck it up, or can I continue on like this? I'm waiting for a moment of Relationship Kairos in my life, but the more time that passes, the more I wonder if it's ever really coming. Maybe I'm just not the Dating Kind?

We Are Going OUT!

2008-07-11T20:29:00.000-07:00

Let's celebrate the death of my uncle, people! Let's do this right! Beneath is a map with a tid bit of information for all y'all.

View Larger Map

Sluts?

2008-07-04T00:35:00.000-07:00

So before I begin this story, let me just say that please forget that I met someone OUTSIDE a bar, gave them my number, and went over to their house on the same night.
So, that being said, I went downtown last night to break in the new Rainbow Room at C.C. Slaughter's (if you didn't figure it out, that's a gay bar) with some of my friends. I wasn't going to go out, but eh, what the Hell, you only live once, right? (PS- that's apparently my motto at this point). I got downtown around 12:15 after watching the horrible thunderstorm with Sean for the first few hours of my night, then I went downtown to meet the Rhymers and Joe. We stayed at the Rainbow Room and CCs for about 20 minutes before going to the biggest butthole (and possibly the most interesting) of a bar in Portland, Silverado's. Now, I like Silverado's, but you know, it's a gay strip club, so that's probably all that needs to be said about that. It was time to go home at around, you know, 2 in the morning, and I'd only had like 4 drinks, so I'm heading back to my car, and my friends are getting waylaid by someone outside on the street who resembles a really nicely dressed homeless man. As I'm trying to talk to them and help them escape, or what have you, I run across a boy I'd been sort of scoping the whole night- a cute, slender guy with nice hair and glasses that's been with a girl the whole night. He and I start talking in Spanish, as it appears that the homeless guy only speaks Spanish. The next things happened then in very quick succession:
1) We establish that we speak Spanish.
2) He tells me I'm cute and I reciprocate.
3) He asks for my number and I give it.
We start walking away then, back towards our respective modes of transportation. I send him a call and a text, expecting to hear back from him in a few days.

Well, I get home, amidst pouring rain and terrible thunder, and just as I arrive home, literally just pulling into my parking space, I get a phone call from the boy at the bar- I'm calling him NonMeat, as he's a vegan and this is also similar to another nickname of a boy.
So, long and short of it, I get invited to go over and spend the night with him, and I choose to (you only live once, right?)
Then, something happened that actually got me really thinking; things are getting hot and heavy (you can imagine what happens) and he compliments me on my skills. And I started wondering- if you go home with someone that proves to be talented in the sack, and you compliment them, are you also implying by default that they're a slut? Obviously, someone gets skills in the sack (in the vast majority of cases, anyway) with extensive practice. Extensive practice implies lots of sex, and probably with many people, as only fucking with one person generally gets you into a rut- a great rut with that one person, but a rut none the less. And I just kept wondering- the fact that I'm generally good in bed (I've been complimented on...certain things before), even on the first time around, does that tell people that I've been around? I'm not denying the fact that I've had a lot of fun in my time and had a few slutty phases. But is that what it implies that I've got skills? I've been turning this over in my head all day to day, and I just can't help but wonder- does being good in bed from the first time around (I'm not saying perfect, I'm not saying godly, but good) doom you to implied sluttiness? The verdict is still out on this one...

And as a good accompaniment to the idea of sluttiness, a Sex and the City quote:

"Wow, if I'd known you were just using me, I wouldn't have made love to you like that."

As Smart as I May Be...

2008-07-01T01:37:00.000-07:00

...I'm not that smart, evidently. I am going to try to keep this week...this month, maybe, a bit low key. I forget that partying and drinking are skills I have to keep in tip-top shape all the time or I quickly lose my edge, as evidenced by last night. Nothing bad came about, but, well, it's an alarming and surprising wake-up call. Which begs the question of just HOW I'm going to make this summer work. The MAX, I guess? Who knows. We'll find out.
In other news, I've got to find work and an apartment in Eugene now (and let's not even talk about the fact that I'm not even registered for classes. Oops.) and I'm not looking forward to this. Every time I end up going down there, I wake up too late to get anything productive done while there and so I just party like a rock star, which is, you know, not very responsible. Not that I'm a particularly responsible individual, but I generally have a lower limit of how responsible I try to keep my life, and right now, I'm scraping the absolute bottom of the responsibility barrel. But hey, at least at the moment I've got a job, my bills are paid, I've got a roof over my head and gas in the car.
The 4th is shaping up to be epic.
In all honesty, I don't think I'm quite ready to tackle Portland epic. I haven't had any chance to practice, and Portland Epic always ends up being a few orders of magnitude more Epic than Eugene Epic. I don't know, we'll find out.
Oh, well, we'll see what comes about.
More to come...

The Dyke Swarm

2008-06-29T02:59:00.000-07:00

Dyke swarms. haha.

All Is Not Lost!

2008-06-25T23:53:00.000-07:00

So, despite the fact that Kate Perry licks the doppelgängers off my chutney, it turns out that there is actually some decent music remaining in the world (surprise, I know, right?)
Y'all should definitely check out Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. as he and his band rock my skin off. Think indie meets emo. As a fan of Panic! (well, formerly, anyway...the jury is now out on them), Fallout Boy (well, some of it) and a few other bands of the like, I definitely recommend him. He makes me think of Pinback only faster.

And PS- I'm exhausting witty ideas for titles of blogs that start with the word "The" (hey, it's taken me almost 4 years, but these things happen). So on that note, all is not lost, save for the "The" that has always started my titles.

The Song on the Radio that Sucks

2008-06-24T14:48:00.000-07:00

Most of you have probably heard this new song on the radio called "I Kissed a Girl."
Normally, I'm not one to put much stock in anything I hear on the radio if it isn't on 94.7 Nrk. I mean really, Z100 and KDUK in Eugene are basically nothing but rapping about bitches and hos, money, booze, drugs, et cetera. Which, of course are all Perfectly Acceptable Male Activities in our society at present. Fine, whatever. I don't take much advice from rap stars on anything, because, like your average professional athlete, they're about as in touch with reality as...well, they're not.
But this new song to pop up on the radio disturbs me in another way. Before I start on my tangent, here is a copy of the lyrics for those that haven't heard the song:

This was never the way I planned
Not my intention
I got so brave, drink in hand
Lost my discretion
It's not what, I'm used to
Just wanna try you on
I'm curious for you
Caught my attention

[Chorus]
I kissed a girl and I liked it
The taste of her cherry chap stick
I kissed a girl just to try it
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it
It felt so wrong
It felt so right
Don't mean I'm in love tonight
I kissed a girl and I liked it
I liked it

No, I don't even know your name
It doesn't matter
You're my experimental game
Just human nature
It's not what, good girls do
Not how they should behave
My head gets so confused
Hard to obey

[Chorus]

Us girls we are so magical
Soft skin, red lips, so kissable
Hard to resist so touchable
Too good to deny it
Ain't no big deal, it's innocent

[Chorus]

Now, I hope that the manifold ways that this song is disturbing are readily apparent to anyone reading my blog. But for those of you that don't see it, I feel like getting on a soap box and spelling it out.
First of all, let me establish the premise of this song- pretty girl gets drunk and kisses other pretty girl because, why the hell not?
First of all, the song reinforces the stereotype that it's okay- nay, perfectly acceptable- for girls to get drunk and make out with other girls, "just to try it." I am only slightly disgusted with this blatant reinforcement of the stereotype because, let's face it, there ARE a lot of girls that do this. Sorry girls, but you've earned that stereotype the easy way- by getting drunk and doing it.
The next thing around is the fact that the song is glorifying the fact that Little Miss I'll-get-drunk-and-try-lesbianism needs to flaunt the fact that she has a boyfriend- heaven forbid her boyfriend would complain, because let's face it: this girl is one of those gets-drunk-and-makes-out-with-girls type, and so her boyfriend is almost certainly the I-want-to-see-my-girlfriend-on-Girls-Gone-Wild type. And even if he isn't, she makes such a point of the fact that she just wants to try it and that it's her experiment, why does she need her boyfriend to approve?
So, just to make herself an even bigger hypocrite, the girl then goes on (after the chorus) to talk about how the girl she has just kissed is nothing more than an experiment, little more than a toy for her amusement.

"No, I don't even know your name
It doesn't matter
You're my experimental game"

What the hell sort of message does that send? I'm a drunk party-girl type young woman who's insecure in both her sexuality and her need for approval from her boyfriend, so I'll shamelessly make out with another woman that matters even less than my own (lack of) self worth? Great job, twat-lips, you've effectively made a complete ass of yourself AND you've managed to strip away any dignity from the person you've made a victim in your experiments. But hey, that's okay! You're just a drunk party girl without a brain in your head that's mindlessly conforming to every stereotype or piece of dime-store counsel that's thrown at you
(and yes, it's true- swallowing really DOES help prevent breast cancer! And ten bucks says your boyfriend will lay off the fucking bottle AND he won't donkey punch you after sex if you indulge him in that.) If it's possible, the next few lines are even MORE boggling than all the previous ones-

"Just human nature
It's not what, good girls do
Not how they should behave
My head gets so confused
Hard to obey"

All right, I'll give you the first line- in the words of a close friend of mine, "sexuality is fluid" (yes, it really is- and it leaves the worst stains afterward, too). But what do you mean "it's not what good girls do, not how they should behave?" Are you trying to imply that so-called "good girls" avoid lesbian activities or that lesbian experimentation is mutually exclusive of being a "good girl?" What does the phrase "good girl" even mean here? Someone that blindly takes advantage of other girls while under the influence of alcohol? Someone that craves the approval of their boyfriend because heaven forbid they should have a shred of self dignity not dependent upon the judgment of a man? I can't help but grow increasingly disturbed the more I pick the song apart- I keep looking for something positive or interesting, but the more I try to untangle her message, the more disgusting it gets.
You say "[your] head gets so confused...hard to obey?"
NEWS FLASH TO ALL GIRLS THAT DRINK AND DO STUPID SHIT THEN MAKE UP EXCUSES AS TO THEIR SHITTY BEHAVIOR: ALCOHOL ALTERS JUDGMENTS AND PERCEPTIONS! OF COURSE YOU'RE CONFUSED, YOU'RE DRUNK AS SHIT!
After another repetition of the chorus, she busts out with possibly the best lines in the whole damn song.
"Us girls we are so magical
Soft skin, red lips, so kissable
Hard to resist so touchable
Too good to deny it
Ain't no big deal, it's innocent"

First of all- she must be aware of the fact that gay men are going to hear this song. And frankly, I don't give a damn about soft skin or red, 'kissable' lips (and for the record, my lips are so red right now from being chapped that they would probably be defined as kissable, and I take a lot of pride in keeping my skin soft- fuck you, Kate Perry). What fucking sort of point is Ms. Perry trying to make with this statement? Boys aren't magical? If she's going to sit there extolling the merits of how sexy and wonderful women are, with their "soft skin [and] red lips," then she probably is a bit more of a lesbian than she thought in the first place (which isn't surprising, considering I think we've safely established that she's little more than a drunk party-girl bitch; can the phrase Two Beer Queer apply to a girl?). Secondly, no matter how "soft" and "kissable" a girl is, I would be hard pressed to say that she is "hard to resist, so touchable, too good to deny..."
Seriously, how blind is she? Really? Okay, great, so she likes soft kissable women. Fine. I can appreciate that. Lots of guys and gals out there are into that. It may not be the first thing I'll order off the menu, but I can certainly appreciate their merits. But perhaps the worst thing, then, is her closing line (before repeating the chorus some more):
"Ain't no big deal, it's innocent"

Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up.
"Ain't no big deal, it's innocent?"
To whom, bitch? Yeah, we already know that you're a drunk girl with confused sexuality that's taking advantage of others. But how do you think that your make out partner feels? We can only HOPE she's also a confused drunkard like yourself that craves the attention and approval of her boyfriend, because then you can both laugh it off in the morning and tell your boyfriends about it (if they didn't see it in the first place; and most likely you’ll be fueling some of their masturbation fantasies for at least the week ahead- or until either of you decides to crawl back down to the bottom of a bottle again). But if you've been making out with a bisexual girl or lesbian whom you have already declared to have no value to you? Someone so beneath you on the human totem pole that they don't even deserve a name?
That's just fucked up, bitch. Real fucked up. Innocent to you, yeah, right, maybe. But how do you think that this other person feels when you openly admit that, "okay, I'm going to get drunk, use you as an experiment to test out my sexuality, hope my boyfriend approves (deo volente!), not even dignify you as a person by giving you or learning your name, and then telling everyone else that it was all innocent?" How fucked up is that, seriously? You've already admitted in the opening refrain that "you're curious for [her]" but you're not curious for her in terms of person to person contact- you're curious in the same way that petting zoo patrons are curious. There's neither respect nor dignity in this song, and it's disgusting.

Perhaps the thing about this song that irks me the most is just how much fucking airplay it gets. We're once more reinforcing the notion that girl-on-girl action is totally acceptable, but not just any girl-on-girl action, it has to be lipstick lesbian or sorostitute-on-sorostitute action, because let's face it, how many straight men out there want to watch Rosey O'Donnell make out with K.D. Lang? That shit comes on the television and you're going to get booing and hissing from every commercial, but somehow, it's perfectly acceptable for Girls Gone Wild! commercials to fill up my television on just about every channel between the hours of 1am and 5am- because that shit sells. No, this song is disgusting because it's just reinforcing the notion that the only acceptable homosexual activities in our society are between pretty women, and that most of its appeal is the very taboo nature of the subject matter. It's disgusting in that it objectifies women in the worst possible way, it only narrows our views of what homosexual activity is appropriate, and it disparages against homosexuals by turning them into things, laboratory animals, after a fashion, and nothing more. This song may be a hit (and according to the iTunes Music Store, it is) but it will be a long-ass time before we hear anything on mainstream radio about meeting a cute boy in a bar and making out with him, EVEN under the veiled pretense of borderline alcoholism. No, it will be a long time before that comes around. Women, it's perfectly acceptable for them to sing about victimizing other women and themselves because women are still possessions, pets, things to be kept, in the view of American (and to some extent, Western) society. It will be a long time, though (if ever), before we get to the point when gay men will have hits on the radio like this, and actually get airplay. If I see it once before I die I'll consider myself lucky.

And in other news, the current mayor of Portland, Oregon, is an openly homosexual man. Who knew, right?

The Compulsion

2008-06-22T23:57:00.001-07:00

Why am I compelled to religiously Facebook and MySpace stalk people that I haven't had contact with for years? I mean, really, what is it that drives me to do these things?
PS - my life is a mess, but more on that later.
Haha.

The Best Game Ever

2008-06-21T00:49:00.000-07:00

So, I was going to try to be deep, but then I realized that I am completely and absolutely drained of being deep- I'm too broke to be deep right now.
Instead, spurred on by my great Faithful Reader, I'm going to get on another, very shallow and very divisive soapbox-
I'm calling it Women Drivers.
All right, to start with, I am going to provide the obvious forward by saying that "Not All Women Are Bad Drivers," because I'm smart enough to know that I don't want the karmic punishment of getting rear-ended by a woman talking on a cellphone at 60 miles an hour. And I'm also afraid that I might get hit by a woman driving. That being said, I've been commuting up and down between Eugene and Portland a lot recently, as well as back and forth between Tanasbourne and Bridgeport Village. Both of these locations send me through that horrible suburb of Lake Oswego, one of the richest and most disgusting parts of Portland. I'm beginning to notice two things as I pass through there- firstly, no woman driving through that stretch of I-5 or 217 is allowed on the road if they are not driving, at the very smallest, a Chevy Tahoe. And secondly, they're not allowed behind the wheel if they don't have a cellphone glued to their head and are looking behind them to make sure their kids are still in the car. Driving around the Bridgeport area is the absolute worst- I didn't realize things could get worse than speeding down I-5 at 75 MPH, but I was wrong; women drivers get even dumber and more incompetent when driving near a mall than anywhere else. Lanes? Who needs those. Stop lights and turn signals? Those are for people that are paying attention. Driving on the right side of the road? That's what the English do, isn't it?
Seriously. It should officially be illegal for women who live in the Lake Oswego and West Linn zip codes to get drivers licenses, as these women have ZERO concept of the rules of the road or safe driving. The worst part about it is that, because only white people live in those fucking cities (and a smattering of Asians) there are no policemen around to catch these people breaking the law so flagrantly. This place sort of defines in flagrante delicto when it comes to traffic violations- you can't turn your head without watching a soccer mom almost flatten a herd of pedestrians on her way to getting her nails done, a collagen injection and a refresher lobotomy.
But all is not lost, and there is an interesting outcome to this complete and total disregard for the law that directly benefits me:
Have you ever been to the Autopia at Disneyland and wished you could just go flying off the track to drive around the park? Or gone to an Indy cart racing track and wished you could just race around like a bat out of hell?
I'm taking advantage of this complete lack of law enforcement to Make the Road My Kingdom. I have an excellent advantage when it comes to playing the lawless game- sure, those soccer moms have giant Super SUVs and an unerring ability to break every traffic law ever put on the books, but I have a thing or two up on them- I have a small, "zippy" car (zippy when compared to a Tahoe, anyway) and a brain in my head that's not being fried by a cell phone. All these giant cars breaking laws everywhere provides a constant distraction to any possible law enforcement officer that might be in the area so that I can just do whatever it is I please, when I please, regardless of how blatantly illegal, dangerous, evil or bad-karma-ish it may be. Today, I am proud to say I cut off an old man, passed two SUVs (being driven by cellphoning soccer moms) on the wrong side of the road, crossed over three lanes of traffic at 70 MPH (twice!) while cutting off a hoard of retarded teenagers going into the dreaded Den of Evil and tailgated a young woman in a BMW at less than a car length on 217 going 65 MPH until she got into the right lane in front of a semi-truck at a most definitely unsafe distance (she was like 2 feet in front of that track- I was really hoping she would get squashed or rear-ended at least, but no luck today).
The point of all this?
When SUV driving Soccer Moms decide to break every law in the book, play the game right back, because it's really fun to finally have free reign of the road with complete disregard for law. Who ever thought economic, social and racial discrimination in the housing market could ever benefit me so much?

Please note- those are all actually serious, deplorable problems that need to be resolved (I'd be perfectly happy to get lose my law-braking privileges) but until then...what's the point of tragedy if you can't get some humor or enjoyment out of it?
Women being bad drivers, though, that's not a problem- it's a scientifically verifiable fact.

The End of the Festivities

2008-06-18T01:12:00.000-07:00

Well, all the festivities for finals have ended. I am officially home and officially re-employed by the Sunglass Hut. My life officially consists of writing alone at the coffee shop, sleeping, working, masturbation and, on rare occasions, meeting with friends when they can make the time for me (I'm officially okay with that).
The last weekend-ish of finals was an awesome nightmare. A nightmare because it only underscores the fact that I am a hot mess. Awesome because, well, it was pretty damn awesome.
Thursday was excellent because I got good and fucking drunk, danced a bit (to scratch the dancing itch), got to hang out with a bunch of good friends (some of whom I may not see again) and just have a generally gay ol' time. Shout out to Paul for being a Good Friend and following me around after I got drunk and wandered away from John Henry's when he should have ditched me and let me rot. I was pretty much uselessly sick and hungover (I have a cold, of course) on Friday, which was also not so bad- I took the time to start working on another short story to add to the Vaporiad (I've come up with a name for the new series I've stared) and I had some good alone time in my room before it was time to start moving and packing and partying some more. Saturday ended up being just a general shit show, as is usual. I went up to Doug's place to see the boys (Tony was in town, my brother surprised us, and I got to see Mark, and meet Judd and Rory). We had a gay old time (gay as in homosexual) playing Catchphrase and drinking, and I also learned that beer is officially fake alcohol (after 6 or 7 of them I wasn't even drunk). We had a good old dinner before I marched down to Katelyn's with the intention of going up to Ben's place for a party. Instead, we ended up just going down town with SCAM (I think? Is this the right night?) and drinking some more at Jameson's. We had a good time down there, drinking and chatting away and such before Katelyn and I decided to call it a night and head home (I blogged that night, as I recall). Sunday was also a hot mess, as I went to Scott's graduation party with a bunch of his friends, and drank something like 6 beers for free while socializing. I did, unfortunately, erase all the pictures from my camera by accident but I've that they might be recoverable, so it might not be a total loss. We then went to Chase's house, drank a bit more, and then went to Good Times, where the night was your general evening of mostly-under-control drunken debauchery- the belt marks on my ass from Scott's brother whipping me in the parking lot are almost gone now, thank God. I also ran into 4 people I haven't seen since basically high school, and since I'm awesome, they bought me drinks. We ended the night on a good note, and I went home satiated. I woke up the next morning hot, tired, horny, hungry and hungover, but that's the price we pay for our adventures right?
So now I'm home and life has Officially Lost All Meaning. I've got a few of my friends still floating around, and a birthday party or two coming up, but this is what I've got left now- a summer of unknown duration stretching ahead of me, punctuated by the occasional, random bout of what will almost certainly end up being binge drinking. I don't know how I'm going to actually pull this off, because I am really trying to be responsible now, but somehow everything will work out.
I don't even want to talk about France right now. *Shudder*
So the summer is just winding up and I'm just winding down, which is strange- isn't it supposed to go the other way around? I'm trying to plan for my 4th of July, but I haven't decided if I want to go downtown and get shit-faced drunk with all my Gays or if I want to go up to the butte and watch stuff happen up there...and THEN maybe go downtown and get shitty drunk. Or perhaps I'll avoid getting shitty drunk at all.
I we'll see, eh?
I don't really have any deep thoughts or questions to ponder at the moment, but I think this blog should do me over for the next day or two until something else gets stuck in my craw. Happy summer everyone!

The Northern Exposure

2008-06-17T04:46:00.001-07:00

I moved home today. And God, is my body tired. I don't have a joke about that, I'm just really, really, really tired. Moving takes a lot out of me and makes me curse the day that I discovered I love shopping, as I have more clothing than any 10 gay men should be legally allowed to own.
Aside from being exhausted, I am actually doing a bit better. The last of my hangover has faded and I'm about to hop into bed, but I think, perhaps, that I should post to my readers a question that has been bothering me since last night.
I began thinking about Wasted Summer Boy, which is generally never a good idea because it makes me irrationally angry. I've been holding a grudge against the guy for a lot of reasons over the intervening 9 months (our friendship fell apart the day before I moved to Eugene for school) and I've never felt any need for me to try to forgive him for what he did and the way things turned out. But for the first time last night, I found myself wondering if perhaps I've done the wrong thing by harboring this grudge. I'm normally the type of person that likes to forgive and forget (save for terribly egregious and heinous mistakes or insults). I've always managed to, at least in my own heart and mind, come to terms with the people that have wronged me and forgive them. But this time around...I haven't been able to. And it's been eating me alive all day and all night- am I in the wrong here? Is it acceptable for me to have one person that I absolutely cannot forgive and cannot stand? Should I be willing to forgive someone that has hurt me so much that I don't think I will ever forget it or come to terms with how this friendship was destroyed?
Am I going to harbor this grudge even at the expense of my own dating karma?
Rhetorical questions aside, this is really eating me up. Feel free to give me feed back, yo.
Sorry I'm not very funny today. It's early...late. Either or, the sun is coming up and I'm exhausted.

"wieners."
There, that's funny.

The Hot Mess

2008-06-15T02:06:00.000-07:00

All right, so I'm a hot mess. As usual. Summer is officially/has officially started. I've spent the past few days in major denial, but campus has been a hot mess as well so I've not been able to avoid the fact that everyone else my age (save for the, you know, elderly that are still on campus) has graduated and so here I am, the Old Guy (haha) on campus that hasn't graduated yet. Sorry that everyone my age has already graduated (and even the ones that haven't graduated are generally back around for Round 2) and I'm still stuck here. I've never felt so ashamed to say "oh, hey, no, I'm 22, but I'm graduating eventually, after I figure out what I'm doing next year." What ever happened to no judgment? The word "judgment" has conveniently left everyone's vocabulary this term, and left me holding the short end of the stick (I think I'm mixing my metaphors, but oh well). So the fact that I've spent a lot of time screwing around is finally coming back to bite me in the ass or what have you. What can I do? I've had a lot of great memories after drinking my way to the bottom of a bottle- because let's face it, that's my coping mechanism and it works great! Let's Friendly Hostility this, shall we?

PS- Shout out to Paul for being an excellent friend and following me around at the bars even after he should have ditched me. Sorry I'm too lazy to phone you to tell you thanx. Coffee, yeah?

So, aside from all this, I met some cute boys tonight. I know, I know, I don't normally meet cute guys because I don't normally...well, meet cute guys. But tonight, I met two all at once (and one other one that I happen to know before happened to be present as well). And what can I do about it? What good does it do? On the one hand, I think one (or both) of them were in relationships. But still...God, I really don't have any friends upstairs, do I? I meet cute guys and what can I do? I have this mostly mild sick feeling in my stomach that the mostly-voyeuristic feeling of observing other cute boys in action is the closest I'm going to having action for myself. I see these commercials for the Kinoki footpads, which claim to suck the toxins out of your body, and I just wonder- can they suck the bad dating karma out of my body? Which forces me to ask- what have I done to make my dating karma this bad in the first place? I'm a hot mess, yeah, but really- what the hell did I do? Did I level some Polish village during the Lebensraum invasion of Poland? Did I condemn some Cambodian village to toil away at the reprogramming camps in Cambodia following Pol Pot's orders? What have I done in this life to deserve dating luck like this? And really, am I ever going to graduate and escape from the mess that my brother has made for me?

The Jerk

2008-06-12T15:27:00.000-07:00

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I'm still sick and I'm still in Portland. I'm praying that both of those will be rectified by 10pm-ish tonight, because I have drinking to do this evening. I've been watching a bit of Sex and the City (big surprise, right?), I've seen all my parents over the past 24 hours, and I thought it might be time to put up a bit of a blog.
I don't think I wrote much about it, but earlier in the term I found myself semi-falling (as much as I let myself fall anymore) in Like with a guy-friend of me and the Katelyns. He's a chemistry major, and graduating this spring. He's cute, he's funny, he has a nice car and he's real bright. All of these were on the plus side for me. I mean, except for one thing. He's "straight."
As an aside, I've decided to switch over to Bitter and Low or Not-so-Splenda as opposed to just regular old Cane Bitter for my coffee, because the other stuff has just too many calories in it.
As a friend of mine said when watching us dancing...on stage...(*insert sigh*)at John Henry's, "It was like watching a not-so-clever seduction."
This kid ain't straight. I'm sorry, I am not normally one to point the finger, but there was a whole article in the school paper about how this guy needed to come out (I'm not talking literally, obviously) and he's the only one that missed it. He jerked me around for a while (only in the figurative sense, unfortunately) and it ended up really hurting my feelings. I mean, he's a great guy, he's jerking me around, and then at the last minute, blue balls (emotional and physical).
Needless to say, I've written him off. So, everything has more or less wound down since then, and now the end of the year is here.
To shatter all this wavy-gravy-grooviness of summer arriving, I noticed written on the Facebook wall of my friend, Number One, that the Straight Guy was thinking of throwing a graduation party. He would quite possibly be inviting her. Which means that he is inviting me, because we're generally a package deal and he knows this. But that's what got me thinking. I'm ritually shunning this guy. It sort of started as an accident, but...well, now that it's started, a rolling stone gathers no moss, right?
So if I am, then doesn't that mean that Number One is as well. But this means I have a problem. I don't believe in the whole political alliances thing. I don't do that. People expect that of me and I try to make it a point not to play by those rules. Which, of course, is what creates the problem- what happens when I am the one being Political?
I've been thinking about this over and over, and now I feel bad for even having made a joke about the shunning. I mean, I don't like this guy. He jerked me around and, confused though he may be, he's not an idiot- Mr. Jerk was playing with me, he knew that I was gay, he knew that I had feelings for him...and he did it anyway. I might be being a little immature about it- but then again, we all know that if it's one thing I am, it's articulate. If it's three things, it's articulate, petty and spiteful. So what do I do, now that I'm the one whose immaturity is spilling over onto someone else? What does this mean about my friendship? Am I in too deep with her?
What am I doing...?

And today's Sex and the City quote is-
Charlotte- "He and Stanford are in Love!"
Anthony- "Well, according to Hancho, he used to be in love all over town!"

The Sleep Deprivation

2008-06-10T19:18:00.002-07:00

I am so sleep deprived I want to fall on a sharp stick and DIE!

Another comic from Friendly Hostility to describe how nutso I am...

The Horrible Realization

2008-06-09T04:26:00.001-07:00

I was walking down the street today, with #1, and I got so tired of always having to listen to other people talking that I said, quite loudly (as I am wont to do) "Why can't everyone else in the world just shut the fuck up?"
I was passing like 4 people at the time, and they obviously glared at me (I, obviously, paid no attention to them).
I was reading Friendly Hostility today (re-reading it...from the start...for the 3rd time) and I came across something that really struck me (by the way, it's 4:30 am and I'm waxing philosophical). I have a hard time being labeled as "gay" at times, and here, ladies and gentlemen, is why-

Just a little bit of commentary as to what starts going through my head when my body is under attack from viruses, I am recovering from a vicious hangover and I go without proper sleep for days on end...

The Horrible, Horrible Mistake

2008-06-07T03:22:00.000-07:00

So, "I've been reading Candide" (which is Michael-speak for "I read the Wiki on it") and I saw Sex and the City today, and it's got me thinking about a few things. One of the big themes of Candide is the theme of "optimism," that we live in the best possible world of all possible worlds.
I think my existence refutes that. I think I make quite possibly every mistake that is humanly possible and allowed by the laws of physics. Seriously. I walk eyes-wide-open into every possible bad situation hoping that my (so far) unfailing luck will get me through one more time. And I have to realize that, yeah, my luck so far has been unfailing. But at some point it's going to fail me, and I'm just hoping that when it does, I get off more or less scott-free, without any permanent souvenirs of my misadventures. So far I've never had a real STD, I've never had been stabbed or shot or gotten into a fight, I've never gone bankrupt, I've never been in jail or gotten arrested, I've never been drugged or roofied, I've never had alcohol poisoning- hell, I've never even had straight-up-honest-to-God food poisoning. The worst things that happen to me on a regular basis are that I forget to bring my homework to the library or I get a cripplingly bad hangover (both of which are my fault). I keep getting into all of these stupid messes, but I never ever end up getting out of them- some sort of weird Deus Ex Machina of my life seems to always bail me out. And I'm realizing now that things are going to start getting real now very, very soon. This magical protective enchantment that has allowed my life to become completely unreal is going to burst very, very soon, and I don't know what I'm going to do about it. And I'm scared for when that happens. One day, soon, my life is going to be Real, with real consequences and real problems- not, what do I wear today? What do I drink tonight?- but "how do I make rent?" or "Where am I going to get insurance coverage?" or "how am I going to pay for the medication to get my inflamed liver under control?"
And this is what gets scary- I have no idea how to handle things when they start getting that real. None at all.
...any thoughts?

The Horrors of War

2008-06-05T01:13:00.000-07:00

I've just finished reading the Wiki for the movie Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed.
All right. For the first, last and only time, I'm going to put this out there for anyone and everyone to see-
CREATIONISM IS NOT SCIENCE. INTELLIGENT DESIGN IS NOT SCIENCE.
Why?
The forces at work in any theory of Intelligent Design are non-scientific in nature- they cannot be reproduced, tested, or "controlled," and science can ONLY deal with events that can be prepared as experiments and controlled. This is the underpinning of all scientific theory, from the Newton to Galileo to Hawking and Einstein. The greatest thing about all scientific theories is that, by nature, they are just that- theories. And, by nature, we are always seeking ways to expand them in the hopes of finding ways to disprove them, which will in turn show us to corrections. Those who support intelligent design and who claim that the Theory of Evolution is being put forth as the Gospel of Biology and the Origin of Life are wrong- evolution isn't put forward as a fact, but it's put forward as the most resilient theory we have to explain the origin of species we see in the world (please note, the theory of evolution does NOT deal with the origin of LIFE).
What really sickens me about this film is the disgusting use of Holocaust imagery and the implied connections in the film it makes between "Darwinism" (read, the Theory of Evolution) and the horrors of the Nazi. The abuse of images of one of the worst humanitarian events of human history for such a base purpose, in support of a fundamentally incorrect idea, is truly disgusting. And the fact that they would put Ben Stein up as the face of this is the worst part yet.
Great job pandering to the idiot masses, guys. You do almost as good a job convincing people that pseudo-science might be valid by confusing them with quote-mining and propaganda as the movie What the Bleep Do We Know?!
Seriously.
Too bad my Life didn't come with an ejection seat.

The Reasons to Get Out of Bed

2008-06-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

...just decreased by one. I've just spent the past HOUR reading about poop, Pica, the Netherlands and magpies. Here's a few fun facts for all of you- the magpie was originally just called a "pie" until the 16th century, when the female name "Mag" was attached to it. There is also a rhyme about how to use the number of magpies seen in flight to predict the future...okay, there are like five of these rhymes. Retards and pregnant women have at least one thing in common- they are the most common sufferers of Pica, which is the compulsive eating of non-food substances. Pica is also normally traced to either a) a mental disorder, or b) an iron deficiency (whether or not the person eats a ferrous substance or not).
There was nothing interesting about the Netherlands. And there was plenty about poop, but even I'm not that immature or scatological. Well, I'll say this- Metamucil is now being marketed as a beauty product: "Metamucil: Beautify your inside." Really? I mean, really? Bind your poop together and get pretty. Oh yeah! Who's up for a barium enema?
In other news, I'm still single.
Which, actually, is a really good segue.
I was watching Sex and the City today (because I still have at least one reason to get out of bed before 9pm) and it was the episode where Carrie turns 35. She plans a birthday shindig which falls through because all of her friends get stuck in traffic or can't find the restaurant, so she goes home to shower before being dragged out with her friends to their coffee shop. While there, she discusses with them how hard it is to be single at 35. You don't have someone to celebrate your birthday with in that "special way," you don't have anyone to tell you how cute you look when you get dressed up, you don't have anyone to do all of those special things, going out together, studying together, shopping and hanging out together...oh, wait, was that me inserting my own hopes/dreams into this?
Some of my faithful readers have asked why I'm anxious to be in a relationship. This is why. I have practically no reason to get out of bed in the morning, let alone trying to make myself look presentable when I'm going out in public, trying not to look bitter and angry when I'm around people or trying to be positive and up-beat when all I feel is pissed-off and generally bitter about having to, you know, get out of bed in the first place. I've been thinking about this because the school year is drawing to a close, and every six months I have to have a crisis of some sort (my mother thinks that gay men like this sort of drama...I'm beginning to think she's right). Especially come the end of the school year, I start looking ahead to what I'm going to do for the summer (which is normally my favorite season) and what I want to accomplish before the coming winter (because I have fake-S.A.D., I can't accomplish anything between Christmas and April, and even then, the first thing I accomplish every spring is getting allergy medicine).
I've been thinking about what I'm going to do this summer and what I'm going to do for fall...and gosh-dang-it, I really just don't have that much motivation to do anything at all. I'm going to have to work all summer, I'm going to go to France and pay too much money to spend 4 months drinking and partying, then I'm going to come back to Eugene for 2 more terms to finish getting a sub-par education in a God-forsaken hole in the ground.
Anyway, I asked a friend a few days ago if there was anything about me that makes me undateable. Unsurprisingly, it's my personality. I don't exactly have a "warm, friendly, welcoming" personality, which I am well aware of. I have a gritty, sarcastic, dry sense of humor and I AM pretty damn bitter- I don't like where I live, I don't like this school, and I dislike the vast majority of my fellow students (I'm far too apathetic and mean to really care about what gets most of my companions motivated...well, save for alcohol). I guess I'm, at present, stuck in a bit of a vicious cycle- I want a boyfriend to help break me out of the bitterness, but I don't have one, so I get bitterer, which makes me less dateable, and so on and so forth. What sort of steps do I have to get out of bed? I'm pretty bad at faking things, so what do I do? Drinking heavily doesn't REALLY make me more dateable- it just makes me funnier and more entertaining in the moment.
Well, I guess that I really can't bitch about this any more at the present moment. My brain hurts and Will and Grace is REALLY distracting.
So...yeah. That's all. HAHA.

The Drake Equation

2008-06-02T01:32:00.000-07:00

I've been watching the movie A.I. (okay, I'm watching it right now) and it's been getting me thinking. A lot of things have been getting me thinking lately. I've reached that point in my life where I can start thinking about how life was when I was younger versus how life is now. I've been thinking a lot about life before cellphones, life before the Internet, life before DVDs and information piracy and thumb-drives, life before iPods and iPhones and Wi-Fi. I remember life before Tickle-Me-Elmo and Wii, when Sega Genesis and See-n-Say were top-of-the-line technological toys. I'm using the term "before" in a general sense- I recognize that most of this stuff "existed" even before I was born, but these things were far from ubiquitous. It's funny for me to think about how much my life has changed without me even noticing it. Even going back, say, five years, some of the things I now take almost completely for granted (A lap-top, wireless internet, my iPod and the complexities of my cellphone, blogging, MySpace/Facebook, et cetera) were completely incomprehensible for me- I saw a lot of it coming, but at the same time, I didn't really think about how they would revolutionize my life. I had little concept of text messaging, five years ago. Sure, I was a bit behind the times, but that's life, right? But I was fairly sure that at some point, all of our little hand-held gadgets (calculators, cell phones, CD players/mp3 players, palm pilots, et cetera) would all most likely merge into one little portable device (otherwise called an iPhone or BlackBerry). Even the new gadgets that come out nowadays, like those cellphones that identify songs just by pushing a button while the song is playing, or cars that are able to drive themselves, hardly register on my radar anymore.
I am not one of those people that subscribe to the theory that technology will remedy any problem and make life a Paradise- I really doubt that our technology will make life anything like the beautiful (yes, beautiful) future that we see in Star Trek. I don't believe we will make it to another star system, not even Alpha Centauri, in the lifetimes of even my children's children's children's children's children. I do not believe we will ever be able to "beam up" to anywhere, nor will we be able to go spend our days off on a holodeck, fucking holographic bimbos, spelunking on Pluto or enjoying the beautiful beaches of sunny Risa. We will not be able to get anything our hearts may desire from a replicator. We will not fly into space or go hover-boarding on an anti-gravity skateboard. I don't think we'll ever even have flying cars, baring some sort of major development in science that allows for control over gravity. I will probably live for another 50 or so years, and then I will die. I do think that in that time I will see the end of the Oil Age, and the appearance of the first nanotechnological machines, the first nano-robots that maintain our bodies, nuclear fusion, hopefully a cure for AIDS, and quite possibly the first artificially intelligent machines. I would REALLY like it if we could get those nano-robots developed that could keep us young for a very long time and/or change our bodies as we might wish. That would be pretty cool. But as much as I would love to jump forward in time to see all of these great changes, I know that they're going to sneak up on me, one day at a time, until I look back another five years or ten years or twenty years from now, and I'm not even going to notice. And even as these changes overtake us, there will be other things that stay the same. I truly think that I will still be cooking with a microwave, a stove and an oven, that my food will still come out of a refrigerator. I don't think in ten more years that I'm going to have a robot cook- I might have a Roomba, but even that is debatable. I will probably still have something that resembles a lap-top and I will still watch a television, not a holographic viewing device (don't get me started on why Holographic TV won't be happening any time soon). I will still drive a car, and it will quite possibly still be powered by fossil fuels.
In short, dear readers, I suppose that my point in writing all of this is pretty simple. That after thinking about how much technology has changed and will change my life, I've come to one, final conclusion- Heaven on Earth for me will be achieved when I can have a customizable sex robot. That will be the first and last day of the rest of my life, that will represent a complete and total change over my entire existence.
Gotta dream big, right?

The Big Question?

2008-05-31T01:32:00.000-07:00

I just spent the past 4-ish hours with my two girlfriends and their two boy-ish friends (don't worry, I didn't use the full on B-word, anathema as that is). I won't call myself the 5th wheel, because I don't exactly feel that way, but after watching 3 hours of Sex and the City, drinking and eating pizza with these folks, and having a horrible cat-induced allergy attack, I'm beginning to wonder- is this what it's come to? Is this what I have to look forward to for the foreseeable future? Is this how it's just going to go for the rest of my time here at college...or in life?
Is this it?
I can't help but ask myself this question as the weeks and months go by. I've been trying to do the whole "keep my chin up" thing, but I just realized- what for? I'm only going to spend another week here in Eugene, then it's back to Portland for 2 months, then off to France for 4, then back to Eugene for 3-6 months (depending)...and then what? Is this how it's going to go for the next Foreseeable Future? Am I going to be the great guy who "Just Loves Being Single" and is always fun to be around, great for comic relief and to cry on his shoulder but that's about it?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not in any way questioning the validity of my friendships. I love my friends and I don't know what I would do without them. But it's making me wonder- is this all I've got to look forward to? I'm just going to be some fun, drunk attaché? Is this it?
I'm not dumb enough to think that it's "everyone else." I know it's got a lot to do with me, what I've done, who I am and who I was. I'm not stupid enough to think that I can't escape from all that. I'm just wondering if I'm the only one that will let things be put in the past, or if I'm really doomed to be haunted by all that stuff that's come before. Can bygones ever really be bygones, or am I doomed to carry around the taint of the sins that I've committed out of immaturity in the past? I'm I doomed to spend the rest of my time here like this, waking up in an empty bed and going to bed at night alone, spending my hours when I'm not with my girlfriends drifting about like some lost creature? Is this it?
The closer I get to graduation (haha), the more I think that it's going to come time for me to pack up and leave, get away from everything that I've got here, and really establish myself as my own man on my own merits- somewhere that my reputation doesn't precede me, where I'm not the Younger Brother or the Professional Drunk or what have you. I'm thinking it's time to go somewhere that I can really make my own image for myself, rather than put on the mosaic personality that I have for myself here. I'm beginning to think that I miss Spain so much for that reason- I was Myself, there, not what I am here, not the collection of shared images that people agree upon as being Michael. I miss being Me, I really do. It's hard getting back into what everyone else thinks of is Me, when I spent six months of my life as what really IS Me.
So I'm beginning to wonder, now, or perhaps I'm really letting myself think of the things I've been trying to avoid- is this it?

The Most Historical Thing Ever

2008-05-25T02:47:00.000-07:00

So, amazingly, the fact that Wikipedia is "Choose Your Own Adventure" for adults has incredibly led me to a possibly amazing realization/discovery.
I was reading about the earthquake in China, and after hopping back and forth across a number of Wiki-links, I came to the article about the Alaskan Good Friday Quake of 1964. I've known about this quake for years, having read about it and a bunch of anecdotes about what happened in the aftermath of the quake. But I'd never really thought much about it until I read a little section at the bottom of the article that read "four children were killed on the Oregon Coast at Beverly Beach State Park."
This immediately got my wheels turning for one big reason.
My grandmother has always told me stories about my family that goes back for ages and ages- how her grandfather made a bunch of money in the Alaska Gold Rush before his partner stole it all, how her mother had a doll made of clay that was dissolved on a boat when a storm washed seawater under the door, et cetera. I'm sure that most of us have countless stories like this, about family members that we've never actually met and that are semi-mythical to us.
Well, one of the stories she told me was about a cousin of hers that was killed in a tsunami when she was young. Apparently, when my grandmother was a young woman, someone she was related to was killed in a tsunami on the Oregon coast (if she told me the story right). There haven't been many (if any) fatal tsunamis on the Oregon coast, so what are the chances? I mean really. It seems that a family member of mine was killed in the tsunami that came from the Good Friday Earthquake that struck Alaska. I'm going to try to bother my grandmother about this to get some more details, but...well, coincidences, right? Who knew?

The Accidental Casserole

2008-05-22T20:51:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, the strangest thing happened. You know that saying, "It's like a party in your pants, and everyone's invited?" (That's a saying, right?) Well, that's what sort of happened in my kitchen the other night. Only it wasn't exactly a party in my pants, it was a party in a pan (thanks for that one, Katelyn). And it didn't end in an orgasm, it ended in something...else. I'll set the stage a little bit for you.
I can cook anything- I've learned this the hard way (or the easy way?) by randomly putting things together or following a randomly chosen recipe or what have you, and unfailingly producing edible, oftentimes good-tasting food. I seem to have the equivalent of a green thumb in the kitchen. It doesn't matter what it is, I can make anything edible (Except my roommates cancer oven bacon- that stuff was pure, unsalvageable free radicals).
So, with this in mind, I decided when it was really hot last week to make pasta salad. It's not very hard to make, but I spiced it up a bit, and was quite pleased when it came out universally praised. I decided last night that I was too lazy to make real food, so I was going to make another load of pasta salad. It's easy and it tastes pretty good and my stomach likes it, so that was all I neeeded to do. I went to the store and bought most of the necessary ingredients, got home and started cooking, pleased that I'd be done before Boston Legal got going.
Well, I began suspecting that things were going a bit strangely when I realized I had a can of tomatoes heating in a pot on the stove while the pasta cooked.
Now, for those of you that don't know, you don't put hot, canned tomatoes in pasta salad. It's just spiral pasta with maybe onions, green peppers, banana papers, fresh tomato, celery, etc, and then tossed with Italian dressing, a mayonnaise base (or so I'm told) or a mix of olive oil and vinegar.
So I've got this can of hot tomatoes on the stove, and I realize that, wait a minute, something isn't quite right here. I chopped up the vegetables and added them to the tomatoes thinking (stupidly) that I'd just boil off the water and do it that way...
Well, about five minutes later, my brain came back from wandering about and I realized I'd added cottage cheese to the mixture. I don't know where I got this idea but, well, I did. I'd added a mountain of vegetables, the pickled pepper juice, and a few other random ingredients, and it's now occuring to me that perhaps this isn't going to come out as pasta salad after all.
Well, I began wondering at that point just what I WAS going to make. My pasta was done by then, so I drained it and left it sitting on the stove, wondering what the hell I was making. I don't really like pasta with thick tomato sauces because my stomach and Marinara sauces don't get along too well. I figured I would just boil off the water in the sauce (I was still laboring under this delusion), so I just dumped the sauce into the pasta and jacked up the heat.
Ten minutes later, I'm wondering why my pasta sauce isn't vanishing, it's just getting thicker. It dawned on me, of course, that by this point I'd added canned tomatoes with all the juice, a can of sliced olives (with all the juice), pickled pepper juice to keep it from burning, and about a cup of cottage cheese with all the liquid (whey?) it comes in. I realized that I wasn't going to be doing anyone a favor by letting the concoction just sit on the stove, so I grudgingly took it off. I spent a good five minutes staring at the chimera I had made (was it soup? was it salad? was it stew?). Part of me was tempted to just throw the whole mess out and start all over, but then I remembered that I'm a cheapskate and I'd be wasting about $10 in doing that, so instead, I bravely took the soup ladle and got myself a spoonful of the "broth."
For all of you that have been to the Glenwood restaurant in Eugene, Oregon, and eaten their fabulous tomato cheese soup, I can now safely saw that I can duplicate their recipe. I nearly jumped out of my skin with surprise when I tasted it. But there was, of course, just one problem- sure, I'd made tomato-cheese soup that tasted excellent (I'll be refining this recipe later) but I'd set out to make pasta salad. You know, cool pasta and some chopped up Mediterranean veggies chopped up and tossed together with a bit of salami and Italian dressing (I'm lazy like that). What I had instead was an unidentifiable and indescribable mass that had once been pasta and veggies that oozed tomato-cheese soup. I decided that as wonderful as it was to have a tomato-cheese soup-oozing mass sitting in a pot in my kitchen, I had to do something to make the mass edible. I drained off the liquid, or at least as much as I could, added a bit more salami, and then garnished it with Mexican cheese (what the hell, now it's like a culinary party in my kitchen and every country is invited). I stirred it up before tasting it, to get the cheese properly mixed and such, and...surprise of surprises, I had made something quite tasty. At the time, I didn't quite know what to call it- soup? stew? salad? After entertaining the notion that perhaps I should say it was a soup masquerading as a salad and vice versa, it dawned on me.
I'd made a casserole. I'd just produced the staple food of every American middle-class household from the 1960s. Sure, it came about in a fairly roundabout way (and there was no oven involved) but sure enough, that's what I had. It looked like a casserole. It had the texture and consistency of a casserole. It tasted like a casserole (As much as the word "casserole" can evoke a specific flavor, I suppose). And so, low and behold, I had casserole for dinner. It was surprisingly good. I have yet to give it a proper name (Mexi-Italo-American-Cheese Casserole somehow seems to long), so at the moment, the name for this concoction is Accidental Casserole. If anyone has a name to suggest, I'm all ears...
I'm not going to bother writing the recipe out here, because...well, I don't remember it and I can't give any real exact measurements. IF someone is desperate enough to want to eat this stuff, I will post the recipe later.

So, aside from this, I thought it might be interesting for me to point out that, once again, I am the biggest failure of a human being that could ever be.
I went out drinking again last night (I only had like 2...okay, like 7 drinks) and unfortunately, the vibe was totally off. I won't get into details but at least it made for an interesting night. I got home and decided I would try to induce a good cry, because I was feeling emotionally stifled and pathetic for being single (the usual complaints I have), but I actually passed out before I could get to the song on my Sleepy iTunes playlist that always makes me cry (Brothers on a Hotel Bed by Death Cab for Cutie). I guess 9, er, 7 drinks and benadryl will do that to you. Who knew? So, in any event, I woke up today with every intention of going to this Romance Language Department Graduate reception so that I could, you know, try to get some direction in my life. Perhaps I should clarify that a bit- I have direction in my life, an internal compass, if you will, but the problem is that it always seems to point in the direction of a bottle of alcohol or pornography; this isn't helping me figure out how I'm going to pay the bills when I graduate. Well, I had planned to go to this thing with Katelyn #1 because, well, it was her idea that we go in the first place. Big surprise, neither her nor I end up going. We end up getting lunch instead at the sub shop on campus, and me barely being able to keep my lunch down as my stomach was still pissed at me from the previous evening. This was only a big deal because I had gotten out of my Latin test today because I had intended to go to this thing instead. Now, I have to do my test tomorrow (and rather than study, of course, I'm writing in my blog. Oops). Oh well.
In any event, I was still feeling pretty crappy, but I had an hour before my French class to take a nap in the student union, so I headed off in that direction, found a comfy chair in the napping room, and conked out as best I could, my hangover slowly but surely fading with the food in my stomach.
Well, I start napping at 2pm. I had intended to wake up at 2:55 so that I could get to class just in the knick of time. Good plan, right? Almost an hour nap to sleep off the rest of my hangover.
5:30 roles around, my phone starts vibrating, and I realize that, lo and behold, I have slept through my French class and now I'm behind schedule to go shopping for clothes for this birthday dinner at the Eugene Country club tomorrow (gag me with a spoon). Needless to say, there was little I could do at that point except sigh heavily and theatrically, as I am wont to do, and start trudging home through the light rain.
So yes, my dear listeners, I am officially a big, fat failure at that thing we call life. For a variety of reasons, I am slowly but surely beginning to realize that I need to pull my head out of my ass and, you know, actually get on the stick about being a human, but at this point...ugh, I think I'm just too apathetic to care. Oh well. What can I do?

And for those of you that care, reason F for getting out of bed in the morning just ended for the season. Great. Just what I needed; one less reason to wake up in the morning.

The Sandwich

2008-05-21T19:58:00.000-07:00

It's officially spring, I guess. I mean, we've already had our monthly allotment of nice weather, so I guess I can say it's almost summer, really, even though the rest of May is probably going to suck.
Another week gone by, and another discovery- I CAN CONSUME AN ENTIRE BOTTLE OF VODKA IN ONE SITTING WITHOUT BLACKING OUT, VOMITING, OR DYING. I can scarcely imagine this. I mean really, who knew? A bottle of vodka, isn't that supposed to kill you? One fifth of a gallon? I'm only marginally alarmed by this, as I suppose I've done worse things to my body, but...well, how am I ever going to be able to get drunk at a bar now? If it takes me an entire bottle of vodka to get properly drunk...what happens now?
Aside from this, I'm realizing a few other things.
Family Guy isn't really very funny. It's humor is almost entirely non-sequitors, and really, non-sequitor humor is only fun for so long. Like, 3 episodes. And then it's just not funny any more. If it were sarcasm or something like that, something consistent between the episodes or some consistent reference to outside events or what not, then it would be much funnier. But it's just not THAT funny. Really. Make it stop now. I'm tired of it. Salt shaker up the nose? That's not funny. Peter Griffin can only be retarded so much and then after a while, it's just not funny any more. Really, someone needs to take that show out back and either give it some botox and a good face lift, or put both barrels between its eyes and send it on to a better place.
On another note, I've just finished playing through Shining Force and Shining Force 2. I don't have a copy of Shining Force 3 at the moment, but that may change, hopefully soon. I'm finding myself remarkably adrift now. I have almost completely run out of reasons to get out of bed in the morning. So far, these reasons, in order of importance, are a) bathroom, b) going to be sick from hangover c) hungry, d) masturbation, e) drinking, f) Boston Legal. Perhaps I'm losing my motivation to be human because I spend a lot of my time alone between weekends. That gets depressing, spending a lot of time by myself, but perhaps maybe I'm also just really ready to get back over to Europe. I dream a lot about it (and having sex with random strangers, which is really alarming, as I don't normally have sex dreams). But in any event...
Well, I suppose that's enough for now.

The Delay

2008-05-11T14:13:00.000-07:00

According to the little date-and-timery thing on my opening page, I haven't posted an entry in about two weeks. I suppose...
...okay, so I'm definitely having one of those Carrie Bradshaw, "men are socks" moments. Which, I suppose, is ironic. Because here I am, sitting in my mother's apartment watching Sex and the City OnDemand, trying to write in my blog and essentially failing.
Seriously, it's FUCKING MOTHER'S DAY. MOTHER'S DAY!! AND I CAN'T EVEN FIND MY MOTHER!
I have no idea where she is. What the fuck is this? I drive two hours up I-5 with a hangover like death (I only almost threw up like 5 times...) and my MOTHER isn't even HERE on MOTHER'S DAY?! What am I doing here?!
So, perhaps I should try to come up with something...um, deep? Entertaining? Something to say. Whatever.
I've been thinking a lot about, you know, relationships and...stuff. As I always do. I focus on this because I'm still sort of lonely and I'm still also sort of not really looking. I mean, let's face it: I'm still the hopeless romantic. I am still the 17-year-old boy who wants to fall desperately and hopelessly in love. I will ALWAYS be looking- the least "looking" I will be is "sort-of-not-really-looking," because I'm always looking.
It doesn't help that this week I sort of realized that I still have no direction in life. That going to France isn't going to give me any direction. That getting two degrees isn't going to give me any direction. That I still don't want to do anything aside from be a writer, a socialite, a partier and perhaps a professional drunk. I want to be able to set my own schedule and hang out and do nothing when I want to and not have to answer to people and such. I want to have a boyfriend-husband with money so that I don't have to worry about supporting two people. Is that so much to ask? I don't care if I have to work a mostly crappy job as long as I'm only supporting myself. If someone else is actually, really involved in my life, I'm not going to be supporting them. I don't expect to be supported, I don't expect to support someone else.
So in any event, here I am, at home in Portland on Mother's Day...with no mothers in sight. Here I am, all alone-ish, bored and tired and cigarette-less.
What am I to do?
Perhaps I'll write some more when I have come up with something more witty to say than "men are socks, change daily."

The Hobos

2008-04-27T22:47:00.000-07:00

The Zodiac

2008-04-27T03:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I officially became a werewolf. My friend Jesse and I were walking through the graveyard on campus on the way back to our car when we ran into some Vampires. Anyone who claims that Buffy is a fictional television show is wrong- we ran into three vampires, trolling for blood in the graveyard. It happens sometimes, you know? Thank God my father is a werewolf- if I hadn't been a wolf (and had I not bitten Jesse before) we both would have been in for some tough times. Instead, being werewolves, we were okay. We were able to intimidate the vampires, because werewolves, as everyone knows, are above vampires on the hierarchy of Dark Creatures. We were talking about something important when the vampires tried to attack, but our superior senses (werewolf senses) were able to detect them, so they were both surprised and foiled. They were also trolling the University of Oregon graveyard, looking for victims, but we were not victims- we were predators. This is what we DO. They tried to get us, but we were ready, being the superior creatures that we were. We got the vampires, got them totally in their place- even when one of them tried to sneak away and sneak up on us. We still won. Werewolves RULE.

The Onset of Wet Brain

2008-04-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

So, basically, I have wet brain. I mean, let's be real. Let's be honest. My brain is now full of fluid filled vacuoles, which has REALLY impeded my blog-writing ability. Hopefully, once this next weeks calms down a bit, I'll ACTUALLY be able to write something...well, real. HAHA.
In the mean time, keep yourself occupied by checking out this hilariously dark comic,
Cyanide and Happiness.

The Update Schedule

2008-04-08T19:27:00.000-07:00

Okay, so, I realize that I've not been updating as regularly as I'd like. Once things settle down a bit, I'm hoping to regularly update the blog on Tuesdays and once during the weekend. Probably Fridays to report what happens on Thursday night, as that's always a fiasco. So yes. That's the schedule, hopefully starting this Friday. Ciao!

The Dumbest Realization

2008-04-02T00:20:00.001-07:00

The Most Retarded Thing Ever

2008-03-30T14:01:00.000-07:00

So, every now and again I carouse around on manhunt.net just so see if there are any hot boys, and sometimes to check if some of my regular hookups are online. Today I was online for perhaps 5 minutes- literally five minutes on a clock, not five imaginary minutes that imply a short time- mainly because I had to delete a profile I made by mistake last night while exceedingly drunk (more on that later). While I’m online, I receive this message (and seriously, take the time to read this- it’s fucking hilarious and ridiculous at once)-

Hey im supposed to ask for my friend Justin aka shareholder why you being a
dick to him.. I can see your not too cute.. and certainly not a twink..
He said you used to talk to him. now you wont? and my own 2 cents worth. is your not that hot so get over yourself. Or Ill tell him to make a few fake profiles with
guys pics just to fuck with ya.. so Play your games elsewhere.. but if you
dont talk to him.. I will make some fake profiles to fuck with ya.. and have
meet ya. then when you meet them.. you will be shocked and what not.. so
game player. that is what im going to do since your fucking with my friend .
be ready for games unless when I ask J if you talked to him and he says yes.
then I wont. till then. or till we start playing games... eat shit and die
mother fucker

I was flabbergasted. Look, I know that my man-karma is not what it could be, but I’ve been a really good boy lately, and I want to try to keep that up (try being the operative word). The backstory on this "shareholder" guy is simple- freshman year he was into me...on the Internet. I was younger and stupider then, but this was after my Internet phase was over. I never met him, I never said I would meet him, I never told him I liked him or was interested in him, but somehow he got it in his head that he needed to date me (evidently he needed to, as he is obviously still thinking about me). When I told him "no," he became obsessed with this fact that someone had rejected him. To this day, he still can’t handle it (obviously).
Now, at first, I was just sort of shocked- not in a bad way, but that someone would be so stupid as to write me something like this, and on the marching orders of someone that’s obviously even stupider. But then I got pissed. Not so much at this person, more just in principle. This is fucking ridiculous. The phrase "what the fuck is wrong with the human race" was echoing in my head. Now, I should have been the bigger person and let it be, but then I remembered that if it’s one thing that I am, it’s articulate. If it’s three things, it’s articulate, petty and spiteful. So, in the spirit of that, I responded. Here’s how it went:

[begin]

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

Hey, (you need a comma to introduce an exclamation like that) I’m (that’s capital I, then apostrophe, then a lowercase M) supposed to ask for my friend Justin a (period) k (period) a (period) [you need the periods because it’s an abbreviation of something] shareholder why you (are- you need a copula in there) being a dick to him. (you only need one period) I can see YOU’RE (You’re = You are; YOUR = possessive pronoun) not too cute (again, one period). And (capitalization) certainly not a twink (by the way, this is a fragment). He said you used to talk to him (good job, no errors!). Now (capitals, remember) you won't? (Wont = accustomed; WON'T = will not). And (CAPITALS!) my own 2 cents worth (again, fragment!) is (you don't need a new sentence here) your (again, possessives) not that hot, (comma needed to introduce result clause) so get over yourself. Or I'll (Ill = sick, infirm, or quite cool/pleasing; I'LL = I will) tell him to make a few fake profiles with guys pics (guys = men; GUYS' = genitive case of "guys") just to fuck with ya (ya = not a real word). (one period, there) So, (you need a comma when introducing a phrase with "so") play (NO capitalization here, as it's neither a proper noun nor starting a sentence) your games elsewhere. (ONE PERIOD ENDS A SENTENCE, THREE MAKES AN ELLIPSIS, but two makes NOTHING). But (capitals at the start of a sentence!) if you don't (dont IS NOT A WORD; Don't = do not) talk to him. (why did you end a sentence here?) Then (capitals, really, do I need to say why?) I will make some fake profiles to fuck with you (ya = not a word). (again, why did you end the sentence?) And (capitals…) have meet you (ya = not a word). Then, (comma needed) when you meet them. (ended sentence?) You (first word of sentence gets capitalized) will be shocked and what not. So, (comma use) game player (no need to end sentence) that is what I'm (I'm = I am; im = nothing) going to do since you're (your = possessive; YOU’RE = you are) fucking with my friend. (Period; you've finished a thought, so you need to finish your sentence, lest it be a run-on). Be ready for games unless when (you can't have those two words together- one introduces a condition with the subjunctive/conditional, the other a condition of "time when") I ask J. (you need a period as it's an abbreviation!) if you talked to him, (comma, as this is a list of conditions) and he says yes; (semi-colon here, as you are coordinating two thoughts together) then, (comma use as "then" does not indicate a sequence of actions, it indicates a condition) I won't (wont = accustomed; WON'T = will not). Till then, (do not end sentence there, as another condition follows) or till we start playing games…(no space after ellipsis) eat shit and die, (you need a comma, as what follows is an apostrophe [not the punctuation mark, but the literary device]) mother fucker.

Now that I've finished with that…

Have you ever even opened a fucking book, fly boy, or attended one day of higher education (and by higher education, I mean MIDDLE SCHOOL) in your entire miserable life? Your complete and utter lack of even a semblance of comprehension of English grammar and punctuation makes me wonder. Actually, it has essentially convinced me that you have, indeed, not. Go back to whatever hole you from which you emerged and do the world a favor- cut yourself. Hopefully you'll hit a major vein or artery (and remember, it's down the road, not across the street); I can't say that I advise you of suicide (actually, I don't advise intentionally hurting yourself at all- I'm fairly certain your obvious stupidity will be your undoing sooner, rather than later, and I’m hoping to see you on the Darwin Awards), but at this point, I really just want people like you to get hit by buses and never trouble me again.

You say you want to play games with me, fly boy? Bring it on you pansy-assed piece of shit; you think I haven't chewed up and spit out little twinky "boiz" like you before? You would be incorrect in that assumption, you little smart-mouth piece of shit. Be GLAD you have the smokescreen of Internet anonymity to protect you, as I don't take bull-shit like this in person and you would be off to cry to mommy that some big bad man hit you at the bar- oh, wait, you can't even GO to a bar because you're essentially a fucking toddler. You think I waste my time actively carousing for sex on the Internet, in any event? That, for me, is the definition of passé- I used to do that when I WAS a hot, young twinky- at 18. Sorry, I have actual friends, actual sex partners and an actual life- Manhunt.net is a passing form of entertainment in which I indulge myself when I feel like I'm bored and want to see pictures of cock. You think I fucking CARE that you're going to "make fake profiles" just so you can meet me and then "[I] will be shocked and what not" when I meet you? Go ahead, you waste of life; if that's what you feel the need to do with yourself (and at this point, I would strongly recommend actually opening a book and/or getting an ed-juh-muh-ca-shun before you do anything else), then hopefully you live next to a chemical treatment facility that will render your sperm immobile so that you don't pollute the gene pool with any of your vermin offspring. I'm not even going to bother addressing the obvious logical fallacy that is your statement about my appearance; if you had even half a brain you might have attempted to excogitate a real way to insult me, rather than throwing what amounts to a "you're fat and ugly" statement at me, both things I know to be false. Oh- "till we start playing games... eat shit and die mother fucker"

Q.E.D., bitch.

[end]

Seriously. I know I flew of the handle a bit, but at least I was articulate about it, right? And the way I look at it, Smart People, Classy People, Nice People (et cetera) need to start punishing the Stupid, the Boring, the Inane, the Mean and the Unclassy (but not the Ugly people- you can’t help that). That’s the end of it. There is no reason for us to try to be the bigger people when our lives are being made miserable. I think if all of the people that try to live by their Good attributes started punishing the people that live by their Bad attributes, this world would be a much better place, as there thenceforth be social pressure to be Better and there would be negative reinforcement for those that fail.
So, yeah. That’s that. I flew off the handle because someone insulted me, but really, it’s bigger than that. Life is bigger than that. Sometimes I feel like I’m really a part of something or something.

PS- When I get better info about them (i.e. their myspaces, blogs, facebooks, etc) I’ll post it so that anyone feeling so inclined can tell them to go hurt themselves.
PPS- yes, I have indeed reached a new low; and for anyone that doesn’t know what Q.E.D. is, look on Wikipedia; I know I misused it by the article’s definition, but technically it can be used after a non-mathematical "proof," as in the "proof of the ass-kicking I gave that little shit head"

The Defensee

2008-03-28T04:00:00.000-07:00

I would take up sword and mail to defend you, and all for what? All for who?
What am I to do, knowing this? What am I to do?

The Wasting of Time

2008-03-09T19:24:00.001-07:00

I've learned this week that I am, above all else, a professional procrastinator. I can't even do things like write a blog without putting it off...but here goes for my attempt.
As I'm sure most of you know (well...maybe not), I got impetigo last week. Not surprising, really, because this is the boy that got scabies THREE TIMES. Impetigo is, of course, a skin infection caused by strep or staph bacteria that get into a cut or lesion in the skin (i.e. razor burn). So, I had to spend a week without shaving, applying daily a sticky, annoying cream to the lesions so that they would heal. I hate not shaving. I hate skin infections. I seem to be prone to them, which makes life all but unbearable. I had to go to the doctor to get medicine, and I asked them again why I seem to be perfectly healthy in every respect except for my skin- I have more random skin problems than any person I know. I constantly have cysts or infections or infected this or that, and it always has to do with my skin. The doctor's just look at me like I'm an obsessive-compulsive that's gone of his medicine, because maybe that's what I've become what with the constant skin infections, but in the end, they never actually answer my question of "what's wrong with my skin?" Instead, they just skirt around it like I didn't ask, and ask me "how many cysts have you had?" or "is this a regular occurrence?" hoping that I'm going to forget that I asked the question in the first place. NEWSFLASH- I'm not that crazy yet! I would really like to know WHAT is wrong with me, but again, no one seems to give me an actual answer.
On an unrelated note, I've received my housing packet for my study abroad in France, which is definitely a plus, but I have to wonder how I'm ever going to afford to study abroad there. I mean really, I just don't see how it's going to possible what with the Euro at $1.515 or something like that. Ridiculous.
This campus is slowly draining the life out of me. I was going to get coffee on Thursday when I happened to run afoul (well, maybe just run foul, as he smelled horrific- 6 Hobo Power at least) of a hippie whilst on my way. This was a man that lacked shoes and socks, was wearing what had once been corduroy pants that were now frayed off at the knees, a stained sweater that was a size too small, and who obviously hadn't shaved in over a month. He positively REEKED of human stench (like, I live in my own filth and like it) and his hair obviously hadn't seen a comb or the inside of a shower in at least as long as his beard. I wanted to kill him on principle. I wasn't exactly dressed to the nines. I think I was just wearing a T-shirt and jeans, my regular shoes and a jacket, but it just makes me wonder, why do I even bother making myself presentable when people like this exist in the world?
I have an ongoing debate with my friend Jessica about presentableness- I argue that people like that are bad, while she argues that they have a right to dress how they want. I guess after studying in Europe, I no longer think it's appropriate to leave the house dressed in such a state- to me, it indicates a lack of self-respect. Jessica's counterargument is that it represents rather a different sort of self-respect, that these people don't believe appearances matter at all and that people shouldn't be judged by their exteriors. I always counter that carrying yourself like that, with such utter lack of respect for your own personal hygiene and appearance, makes it harder to fit into society- why should anyone respect you if you obviously don't respect yourself? How will these people get jobs? What about if they have kids? She then goes on to argue that these people don't need to contribute to society in the traditional way, that they would rather live "off the grid" or what have you, contributing via "art" or "poetry" or "music" or whatever. I put all that in quotations because I don't actually believe that they're contributing, any more than your typical street-corner hobo-musician (and believe me, this town has an abundance of them). I just can't understand that for some people, the life of a hobo is the ultimate pinnacle of existence. Nor can I understand how I've managed to survive as long as I have in this town, where I'm neck deep in these people. Can't people just bathe and be normal? You think being stinky is being rebellious against the man? Please.
I ended up getting shit-faced drunk again on Thursday. I definitely didn't even try to make it to my classes on Friday- I mean really, why bother? I definitely know that I danced, I know that I ended up at 7-11 at some point, I know that I was at John Henry's, but beyond that, everything is sort of a blur. I know Paul was there, as were Katelyn and Jessica and Dave. I also know that I joked endlessly about being transgendered- if a gay male is dating someone that has all of the girl parts but identifies as a male in their brain, then does that make the gay person straight? I'm gay, and honestly, you can tell me you're a boy all you want, but if I take off your pants and find a pussy, I'm not going to sleep with you- I'm GAY. Being GAY = Generally not liking the pussy. It doesn't mean you don't fuck the pussy, I doesn't mean the pussy makes you sick, it just means that at the end of the day, you fall for your typical cock-bearing male, and not the opposite. Aside from that, if I wanted to have sex with girl parts, wouldn't I just go out and have sex with an actual girl? And by that token, could I just tell everyone I'm a girl to have sex with straight men? By the "pronoun logic," as I'll call it, no matter how much people want to argue the contrary, pronouns don't actually make the gender. To quote Dogma, "What traditionally defines a woman falls between two things: her legs." Seriously. Now, I recognize the whole "gender-queer" thing. That's fine. But the fact of the matter is, for the vast majority of people, what's going to affect your gender is what you've got going on down there- a penis or a pussy. I'm going to leave the intersexed out of this discussion, because they've got a few more options than the rest of us, but even then, many of them come to identify as one gender or another, by many different means. But people are going to look at what you've got between your legs to define your gender- not your sexual orientation, not your comportment, not all of that. But you can still take the butchest lesbian on the planet or the most flamboyant gay drag queen out there, and once you've got the pants off, you're going to find that you've still got a "female" and a "male." I could call myself a girl till Kingdom Come, but no one is going to believe me.
Sorry, this is a bit of a soapbox for me, so I'm going to let it go for now, but I just had to have that little spiel.
Well, I think for now I'm burnt out on blogging. This is enough of a rant for now. Spring break is one its way, and I know that there will be plenty of fertile blog material during those weeks. Till then...
Ex pace

The Procrastination

2008-03-04T22:14:00.000-08:00

Hey hey!
Sorry I've been so neglectful as of late, but I've been super busy. Like actually busy, that's not just a euphemism for drunk. I'm trying to move and I've been extremely bogged down with school work. Hopefully by the end of the week I'll get an actual blog written.
In the mean time, feel free to check out the links at the right- see the new link for No Rest for the Wicked- or check out some other cool stuff that's out in the world...or something. Ciao!

The Things I Are

2008-02-21T18:32:00.000-08:00

Woo!
I had no idea that one could have stressful dreams. That you could wake up from a dream so stressed out, only to realize that the day is going to be that much worse. Unlike My Faithful Reader, who apparently woke up having the most fabulous, banana-cream scented (i.e. gayest) day possible (sorry Paul, but seriously...seriously?). I woke up from my dreams so stressed out that I was going to fail my classes and run out of money that I could scarcely handle getting out of bed and going to shower, knowing that I had to go to my classes, prepare for more midterms next week, and try to find a place to move to before rent is due again in 8 days. I've been so good at waking up and telling myself that no, hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock for 10 more minutes of sleep will not do me anymore good that this morning (and yesterday...and the day before) it was a real shock to wake up and to have that little voice clamoring for just "10 more minutes!" screaming so loudly in my head. If only ten more minutes of sleep could cure what's ailing me, I'd be in perfect health.
It's been a very odd week. I can scarcely believe that my binge is over. I was hoping to at least be able to sustain it for a good two months...but then I thought about that, and realized that my record for binging is only about 42 days, plus or minus an ear. Two months would make it something like 60 days, a full 3 weeks longer than the record. I'm not cut out for that. Not yet. Not till I have another unemployed summer set out before me.
I haven't seen Non-Blond since the day after Valentine's Day. I'm confused. I still am not good at playing this game. I'm not going to invest in this like I did with Nameless, as it's just not worth it. I want to invest in someone, but I want to make sure that my intentions are welcomed. Aside from that, I'm not sure that I'm ready to put all my eggs in one basket until I know that the basket isn't going to fall through. I've got other people that are interesting me as well, and it's not fair for me to favor Non-Blond just because I've seen him so far. Yeah, I "like" him as much as you can like someone after hanging out twice, but that, in my book, doesn't count as commitment.
So why do I feel so guilty about seeing other people then?
In any event, I desperately need a job and some booze. I haven't been out properly drinking and socializing in well over a week, and I would really like to go do that.
I am planning on doing that tonight, so we will see how this plays out this evening. Especially considering that I've been cut off from my Partner In Crime, I feel a little bit lost (just until Saturday, anyway).
I've been doing a lot of Thinking about Things in general as well, as I always do. I've applied to go to France, so if all goes according to plan, I'll be in France for fall term (late August through early December) and I'll be back here for the two terms afterward so that I can graduate. I am also really hoping that I can spend a few weeks in Spain before going to France. It would be nice to see Jonathon, Iván, Olga, and my other friends in Oviedo, which obviously I haven't seen in like 8 months. But it's making me think again about the fact that I'll be up and leaving again soon if I go. Packing up and marching off to another continent for 4 months or so. Oops, sorry guys, gotta go. Got a date in Europe. See you in a quarter of a year!
It's not been making for a good term, trying to move, my classes, all of this thinking stuff. I've not had the patience I normally have for...well, anything. There's been stupid awkwardness between some of my friends because I don't always pick the most mature people to hang around with, and this bothers me. Can't people just be mature adults that are open to criticism and acting like adults? Seriously. I want to scream at some of the people I've had to deal with this term. I am so over the immaturity and the drama, but at the same time, I'm not being mature enough right now to confront it and get it dealt with, so I guess I've no room to complain. So I'm going to just ignore it and hope it goes away. My patience for life has just generally worn away as well, so that I find that I am constantly annoyed with just about everyone and everything. I would love to not be annoyed with every single thing, but I don't really know how to dispel the dark cloud. Oh well, at least it makes me funny and witty. And while some may say that Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, the rest of us know that only idiots and weak-minded folk say that. I want to take all of the dirty, idiotic, uninformed folk out there and a) scrub them down, b) give them an education and c) turn them into little clones of myself. That's a normal feeling for a college student, right?

The Singles Awareness Day

2008-02-14T17:32:00.000-08:00

It's Singles Awareness Day everyone!
Yep, that's right, another V.D. has come around and once again, I'm single. I've not had a Valentine for Valentine's Day since Freshman year of high school. It's great!
But really, with the promise of at least being able to go out this evening and enjoy myself, I think that today is perhaps not going to be the worst day of the year as it usually is.
In any event, I woke up this morning in a strange bed. This hasn't happened in ages. But it's okay. I spent the night with a boy whose only problem I can figure is that he's sorta mouthy and that he isn't blond. It doesn't matter much, though, because I think I've figured out something important about life.
There are three kinds of people in life. The first kind are a small minority. They are the kind that waltz through life and never have any Real Problems. These people exist, just in no great number. Life really is just a Big Bed of Roses that they spend their entire existence waltzing through and enjoying and then they get to the end and they die.
The second kind of people are the most common sort. For them, life is in equal measure good and bad. They spend most of their time fighting off the bad so that there will be some good in it. Each crisis balances out some other period of calm and Happiness.
The third kind of people aren't particularly common either. For these people, life is more or less an existence of struggle. It's not necessarily Bad or Negative or Evil, but it's a constant struggle to overcome obstacles, to continue on in your course and to not roll over and let life get you. for these people, moments of happiness are like oases in the desert. The vast majority of life is struggle and strife- again, not a negative thing, but a string of situations that are constantly forcing us to better ourselves, change, grow, and adapt so that we can get up in the morning to face the world and do it all again. Moments of peace, stability and happiness for these people are, while not exactly few and far between, definitely bright spots in an otherwise chaotic, hectic, difficult, or challenging existence. They are bright spots that come up in the strangest of places- like watching the afternoon get old from the 8th floor of Prince Lucien Campbell hall, or spending the night with an attractive stranger, taking an hour to read a good book, or indulging yourself by going out for dinner at a dive restaurant. These are the bright spots that make everything else worth while. That, and the hope that one day, we'll finally have grown and changed enough that we won't be continually struggling to overcome the obstacles in life, that we'll have the personal strength and knowledge to survive the rough and tumble nature of life.
If you missed it, I'm definitely implying that I'm in the third category.
It's funny, because it's my absolutely least favorite day of the year, and yet...oh well, tomorrow will be better, just by virtue of the fact that it won't be V.D. I will probably have a hangover, but that won't matter much. I started off my day right (in bed with a cute boy that was basically a complete stranger, and with the knowledge that it's best to just take things as they are and not try to make them into what they're not) and tomorrow will be better.
Sorry that this isn't particularly funny or anything, but I'm too tired to be funny. I was up late and up early this morning, so leave me alone!
Ex Pace

The Rules

2008-02-12T19:41:00.000-08:00

So I guess the three-part magnum opus I had planned is not going to come to fruition. I've already forgotten most of the details of the ensuing two weeks anyway (I got really drunk, Nameless decided to Get Rid of me, and then I got really drunk some more), so I'll just continue blogging as normal as though the Ghost of the Magnum Opus isn't hanging over my head.
To recap the last week, I think I've learned a few things.
1) DO NOT pre-funk with wine before going out. This simply leads to no good things. As I think I mentioned in my last blog, it results in my verbally abusing (albeit stupid) women to the point of almost getting myself removed from a club. So far, in all my experience, I've only been asked to leave a bar or club once, ever.
2) The corollary to the DO NOT pre-funk with wine is DO NOT ask bartenders at strip clubs to make you strong drinks. This results in my hammering down four drinks that are essentially pure alcohol, making it home feeling fine, and then ending up vomiting my brains out at 3 in the morning. Well, okay. I was pretty drunk. I was actually to drunk and confused to order a pita at Pita Pit downtown, but still, whatever. That doesn't really matter, right?
3) All that glitters is not gold. Seriously. If this were the case, all the pretty people would be genius scientist artists and the uglies would have been bred out of the gene pool a long time ago. Also, gold doesn't make for a very good conversation piece. You can try talking to it for two hours, but in the end, it's not going to do anything but bounce your own words back at you. Seriously. Lame.
Aside from this, I have to say that I'm endlessly amazed by the amount of information the Internet puts at our fingertips nowadays. I just learned that you can text message questions to the word "google" spelled out in numerics and get answers; definitions, translations, anything you want, anywhere you have cell phone service (at least, anywhere that T-mobile has service). What with Facebook and MySpace, it's easy to discover secrets about people, things that you may not want to know (relationship status, sexual orientation, summer or vacation plans, just what someone was doing last weekend when they were supposed to be hanging out with you, you get the point). And then with Wikipedia and sites like Dictionary.com, the UrbanDictionary and WordReference, just about everything is in your hands after a few clicks and wordss typed into a search engine. It's really amazing. And don't get me started on eBay and Craigslist and the likes of that. Seriously.
And lastly, I am realizing that I'm getting really tired of going out in public in this town, going to class and such, and seeing people that have obviously not given one thought to the fact that they are unbathed and unwashed and unshaved and that their close don't match or have holes in them or stains on them. It really drags me down when I walk around campus and I see whole clumps of these people (I am loathe to call them hippies, because a lot of them only have the title in common with proper Hippies) because it makes me wonder why I bother to take care of myself at all. Then I remember that Real People in the Western World DO make it a habit to bathe and dress properly each day, and so I start loathing these people. Who are they to stink and look ugly when I have to spend a good 30 minutes each day showering, picking out clothes, putting on deodorant and shoes and straightening and fixing my hair? I have this idea that's been planted in my head. We round up all the people that don't like taking care of themselves, and we send them to western Europe, like France or Italy or Spain, where you have to take care of yourself or you get stoned to death by everyone who's nicely and appropriately dressed when you go out in the street. That will really turn these people around. I'm not saying that they have to wear Armani suits every day, but at least bathe and shave and keep your hair tamed and trying to wash your clothes. And you know what we do with people that don't comply? We put them in a little Camp for People that Don't Do as They're Told and no one ever thinks of them again. That will get rid of the ugly and the stink that pervades this campus. Am I right?

The Gag

2008-02-09T18:39:00.000-08:00

So I went out and got hammered last night (surprise!) and felt like crap all day, so I stayed in bed until 4pm. I managed to make it all the way home feeling fine. Then the booze caught up with me and had its way with me, so the toilet got painted a nice shade of vermilion at the end of the evening.
I ran into the boy that I have a strange crush on, but have decided that I think perhaps my crush is a bit misplaced. Yeah, he's cute and all, but I don't know...I wonder while talking to him if there is any THERE there. You know?
Aside from that, I've learned that prefunking with wine before going out to party is a Very Bad Idea. This will not be something I do ever again. The wine just sneaks in under the door and gets me Drunkasaurus Rex drunk each time I do it. Last Thursday I almost got kicked out of a bar for verbally abusing a rude, ugly girl (She deserved it, but I guess I didn't have to tell her that she was a fucking bitch and stuff). So yes, I'm definitely swearing off the wine for a while.
I am sitting here at my favorite pizza place as I write this, and it's making me wonder- why do we allow children under the age of 5 out in public without gags? Seriously. I am so tired of screaming children in every public place I go to. Can't we have some sort of gag-and-leash law put into place? Why should I have to suffer because you can't control your screaming brats?
On the plus side, I'm home. Yay. But I miss my friends, even though I'm only home for a weekend.
And, Faithful Reader, for your sake- STAY OFF MANHUNT.COM. Trust me on this one.

The Memory of an Anniversary

2008-02-06T01:04:00.000-08:00

Happy days pass by much faster
As every single moment that I spent with you
Somehow we let our feelings die
Slipping away without a try
Bring me back to when we met let's start all over

If I
could turn back time I know
I'd do it again
Do it all again
Oh Oh
Cause you were the summer of my life

Only if I
could turn back time I know
I'd give it again
Give my love again
Oh Oh
Memories that keeps me warm inside

Only if I
Could seize yesterday tomorrow
Say the things you never heard from me before
I could have loved you once again
Only a heart can not forget
Bring me back to where we met let's start all over

If I
could turn back time I know
I'd do it again
Do it all again
Oh Oh
Cause you were the summer of my life

Only if I
could turn back time I know
I'd give it again
Give my love again
Oh Oh
Memories that keeps me warm inside

Only if I... if I... if I... if I...

Only if I
You were the summer of my life

Only if I... if I... if I... if I...

If I
could turn back time I know
I'd do it again
Do it again
Oh Oh
If I
could turn back time I know
I'd give my love again

If I
could turn back time I know
I'd do it again
Do it all again
Oh Oh
Cause you were the summer of my life

Only if I
could turn back time I know
I'd give it again
Give my love again
Oh Oh
Memories that keeps me warm inside

Only if I

The Intermission

2008-02-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

The next installment in the Debauchery Series will be forthcoming (hopefully tomorrow or Monday). But I just wanted to comment that it is somehow fitting that the author of Wicked! The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West is gay. Just wanted to throw that out there.

The Biggest Delay Ever

2008-01-29T20:14:00.000-08:00

It’s time to blog again! Lo and behold I haven’t blogged in about three weeks. Why, you ask, when you hang on every word of my witty and informed opinion? What could be so important that I have kept you waiting for the past 21 days? There can only be one possible answer to this: alcohol. Yes, alcohol is officially my very good friend at this point. We’ve been getting acquainted rather intimately for the past three weeks- he’s been coming over to visit every other day or so, and let me just say, we have a raucous time. I don’t remember a lot of it, but, well, considering the phone numbers I’ve discovered in my phone, the pictures that have been showing up on Facebook and MySpace, and the voice and text messages I have the mornings after your average night of drunken debauchery, it appears that I’m both really enjoying myself and others are enjoying me greatly as well. There is just one problem with this whole…drinking to be human thing: it rots your brain.
Last Sunday was the worst day. Thank God Doug was sick, as I would not have been able to form a long enough string of coherent thoughts to actually get in my car, start it, drive it to where he lives and then park it when I got there- they would have found me somewhere in the middle of California, having forgotten what to do once I started going south…well, and it was snowing, really, really hard, and I don’t do well over long distances in the snow. After three nights of heavy drinking (I’m talking about 80$-bar-tab heavy drinking…yeah, I’m That Guy) I could scarcely figure out where and who I was, what language I spoke (when you speak three, and can read a dead one, that gets confusing as your higher brain functions start to rot), and what I was doing in Eugene. Hell, I couldn’t even figure out if I was hung over or not…you’d think that would be a good thing, but really, it’s not- your body can’t get over what it can’t figure out you have.
First, I’ll give you a more-or-less day-by-day rundown of the past three weeks, before I give you my “this is what binge drinking has taught me” spiel.
So, I got back to school, and the first thing I did (because of course, it was a great idea) was get drunk with Katelyn. We didn’t do anything particularly out of the ordinary, save for, you know, drink four bottles of wine (did I count that right, Katelyn?) and watch television. I then proceeded to go home and make a Terrible Mistake. Whilst at home over Christmas, a person that I once hooked up with ages ago (four years ago) had messaged me and told me to message them when I got back to Eugene. So, whilst drunk with Katelyn, the idea of a drunken fool around session suddenly sounded amazingly appealing. Needless to say, I was totally unable to get in contact with this person, so after I had gone home, I began surfing on Manhunt and came across someone else that was promising. Apparently, this person, who shall remain Nameless, was actually going to get set up with me by two of my other girl friends. He is pretty cute (I would date him and actually tell the truth about it- I’ll expound upon my Cuteness Vs. Lying Scale at a later date) and had a number of interesting things to say (I think) whilst we got stoned, I continued to be drunk and chatted after he came over. After the requisite conversation, we proceeded to fool around and a good time was had by all. I woke up feeling only slightly retarded (I thought at the time that I felt amazingly retarded, but I hadn’t yet felt retarded at that point yet) and wandered off to my first class in more or less a fog. Thank god I didn’t have any homework in any of my classes, because there was no chance that it was going to get done. The day passed in a blur, and amazingly, Nameless decided to give me a call and we went and saw Sweeny Todd (I remember the whole thing, as the fog, amazingly, had lifted).
The next day is when it started going down hill. So, I was going to hang out with Nameless, but he ended up being extremely evasive until about 2am. Now, let me get one thing clear. I am a drunk. I am also a fool. When you put these two things together, what do you get? Michael getting extremely drunk at Taylor’s and singing three of the gayest karaoke songs that have ever existed. Allow me to explain:
For some reason, it was a great idea to go to Taylor’s on Tuesday. I was anticipating a typical night of getting a few drinks and just chilling out…little did I know that God did not have anything so normal or easy in store for me. I had dinner plans at 7 o’clock-ish and would be taking Katelyn with me, and I had about 4 hours to kill after class, so I decided to go visit Nameless at his work. Lucky for me (well, maybe not) they had $1.75 well drinks on special at the restaurant where he works. Me being a drunk and also being aware that I’m going to be going out to dinner, I get two (note that I haven’t had a bite to eat all day). At about 6:50 I head off to pick up Katelyn before we go to dinner, and once there, whilst I eat something, Katelyn and I then proceed to finish off a pitcher of beer. After dinner, it suddenly sounds like an amazing idea to go to Taylor’s and get drinks. We decide to go to my room first, and finish the bottle of vodka that I have. So Katelyn, Kerry and I go back to campus, Katelyn gets her car, and we go to my room. Katelyn and I then split the third of a bottle of vodka that remains, before trucking off to Taylor’s.
Once at Taylor’s, we discover that until 11 o’clock, it’s one dollar well drinks. I don’t drink anything other than vodka-cranberries and vodka tonics. I decide instantly that I am in heaven, and order 5 drinks. The reasoning behind this is simple- it’s already 10:50 and I want to get as much bang for my buck as I can, and God help that man that comes between me and cheap booze. The first stumbling block appears immediately. The bartender looks straight at me and says “I can only give you two drinks per person.” He was pretty gruff about it, and I was just tipsy enough that I wanted to leap over the counter and pounce on him like an angry lion killing a hyena that has dared to try and eat its prey. But, thankfully, I stopped myself (and I can’t jump high enough to make a leap like that) and at that moment, my brain chose to turn on for a second. I had two of my girlfriends at the ready, and so I lied and said that I needed two for each of us. He looks at me confused, shrugs, and then gives me six vodka cranberries. The girls help me carry them over to the counter so I can start fucking myself off my face, before returning for their own drinks.
I don’t really remember how many drinks I ended up having that night, as I stopped counting after a while, but at some point I got called up on stage by a bunch of girls to help sing the song Like a Prayer by Madonna. Now, let me preface this with two statements. First of all, I’m gay, so I’ve nothing to lose, I guess, in the manliness department. I would get up and sing The Lonely Goatherd from Sound of Music if I wasn’t absolutely sure I’d get shot by the football players that go to the bar to pick up drunk girls. Secondly, this song is the absolute oldest song I can remember. I don’t know how or why, but I think I was somehow born with the lyrics to this song hardwired into my DNA. I was already trashed off my ass and I sang this song better than the five girls who had picked it…and I wasn’t reading the lyrics…and they were more sober than me. I was waiting for Nameless to show up at that point, and having had my karaoke cherry popped again (I hadn’t done it since Spain), I signed up for another song that I was hoping Nameless would arrive in time to hear- Broken Wings by Mr. Mister. Oh yes, I busted out those 80’s power ballads. I also did not need to read the lyrics off the screen to sing this song, either. I am officially some sort of freak. Nameless still hadn’t arrived when they called me, so I signed up for another song- Time After Time by Cindy Lauper. He had finally arrived in time for this, so he got to see me make a fool of myself singing that song. By that time, I was thoroughly enjoying my role as the bar’s homosexual sot, so I decided (probably wisely) that it was time for me and my attaché to head back to my room. We then got stoned again and fooled around some more before we passed out.
The next day, I somehow managed to make it to my classes without vomiting, but I can’t remember anything that happened that day. The next day, I had no intention of going out because my brain hurt, literally. The wet brain that has now consumed approximately 30% of my brain was just starting, and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle myself in life without my brain at full capacity. But when I got phone calls from two separate people asking me to come out to 80’s night at John Henry’s, who was I to say no? Sure, I had a novel to finish, but so what? The novel doesn’t change if I don’t write it, but 80’s night only comes once a week! So I proceed to go downtown, get shitty drunk at 80’s night, and dance with Paul and Katelyn 2’s roommate…um…something. Now, there is a back story for this evening. I am normally occupied somehow on a Thursday night, regardless of the week, month, year, whatever. I am just always busy. I had nothing to do that night because I had not seen Nameless the evening before, and he had texted me and told me that he was working a double shift at his restaurant and that he would text me if and when he got off work. Now, he normally works at 4 to 10pm shift, and, knowing that his restaurant had a bar, I figured he probably wouldn’t be off until 1am at the earliest. Boy was I wrong.
So I get to the bar at about 11pm, and I’m there for about 30 minutes when I get a text message from Nameless telling me that he is about to get off work. I invite him to come to the bar and, much to my surprise, he refuses, telling me that I’m lame for “ditching him” when we had “already made plans.” In my mind, making plans means meeting at X place at Y time, not “I’ll call you if and when I get off.” I explain this to him and he maintains that I am “lame.” I explain to him then that I will be home at around 1am, and that he is welcome to come over at that time (he came over the first night at around 2:30am and had been at my place till at least 4am each night). He tells me that this is too late and that I am “lame.” We have been arguing now for well over an hour, so it is now almost 12:30. We continue to argue, and my night, despite dancing with Paul and the Roommate-I-Still-Can’t-Remember, my night is thoroughly ruined. At 1:30, I decide to go home…and whilst on the way home, he announces that it’s time to come over. When Nameless arrives at home, he announces that he’s “over” it. I may be drunk, but I am not foolish and not one to be put off, so I give him what (in my mind) is a fairly vigorous dressing down, explaining what Plans constitute to me, and such. He seems to accept this, and we go back inside and get stoned (surprise).
The next morning, I wake up, Nameless leaves, and I am far too damaged by the drinking to actually go to class at all. So of course, because it’s a wonderful idea, Katelyn and I go out drinking that night to celebrate how useless I am. We start off the night at her house, drinking God-knows-what, before we decide to go to Max’s. Now, I had never before been to Max’s. It’s right off campus, a few blocks down 13th street. We go in there and it’s packed. There is also one other thing about this bar that fails to catch my attention- everyone is drinking beer, because that’s all that Max’s serves. Katelyn and I run into two girls that I know from my classes, and I step up to the counter. The girl I’m talking to is chatting with me about how one of her friends made such a fool of herself by ordering a vodka tonic or something at Max’s. “Seriously, how dumb do you have to be to order a drink like that here?” she laughs. I don’t quite get it, but laugh anyway, because I’m like that, and then turn to the bartender, saying, “Hey, can I get two vodka cranberries?”
The bartender looks at me like “who left the front door of the halfway home for retards open?”
I am able to put two and two together at that moment, and I realize that I am totally caught with egg on my face. To add insult to injury at that point, the bartender glares at me and says “um, we don’t serve hard alcohol.”
Yeah, thanks ass-hat, I hadn’t figured that out by the look you gave me and my friend’s story 5 seconds ago. I hope you go get face herpes and die, you waste of life. I frown at him, and proceed to order a “beer…on…tap…whichever is…cheapest?”
Yes, that’s exactly how I ordered it, like a confused, stuttering, Futurama robot whose blood alcohol level is far too low (because, at the time, it was). The girl next to me (Brittney) is laughing her ass off, and I am desperately trying to get the egg off my face. The bartender throws the beers at me, and Katelyn and I drink them. The girls are sneaking off to a bar that serves real alcohol, because everyone knows that beer is dumb, so Katelyn and I get the beers down and follow. We spend the rest of the night at this place called Indigo, standing in line waiting to get drinks. The service at Indigo is pretty shitty. In fact, the only thing worse than the service is the music, but still, I stayed long enough to find the girls, have fun chatting with them, make plans to call Nameless when I am leaving the bar, and to buy a bunch of drinks. Needless to say, Nameless ends up ditching out on me (which, in my book, is “lame,” but who am I to judge) and so I end up going home and passing out.
Saturday I wake up and I’m not too terribly hung over. I mean, I can find the floor and I don’t feel compelled to crawl everywhere lest it start spinning so fast I need to grab it to keep from flying off the earth. The day is chugging along at a more or less normal pace, and of course, Katelyn and I decide that we’re long over due to go drinking. My brother is in town for a birthday, apparently, and so I start off the night with Katelyn, enjoying some wine and some Sex in the City, before we decide that we want to go out. At around 10:30, we call up my brother, and are informed that he’s somewhere downtown called Jameson’s. We have more vodka by this point, so we split the bottle open (after a few bottles of wine, I think) and make ourselves to go cups, before heading downtown to Jameson’s. My brother is a drunken fool, of course, so he’s nowhere to be found, but we end up running into other people that we know instead. So, after having a bunch of vodka in the car and three drinks apiece at Jameson’s (with Tyler completely MIA) we head back towards campus and make our last run through the bars. We head to Rennie’s first, where we each have one or two more drinks, before deciding to head over to Taylor’s. Unbeknownst to me, I am black out drunk for about five minutes at Taylor’s- and we are only there for about ten. Apparently (And I come to find this out on Tuesday morning), Katelyn had set her purse down to get us some beers (I had been buying the drinks all night because I’m smart like that) when, unbeknownst to me, another girl sets her purse down on top of Katelyn’s purse. I look away for a while, and turn back in time to see the girl rummaging around in what I think is Katelyn’s purse. I go over and start to give her a hard time, trying to push her hands out of the way or something, while she explains the situation to me. Apparently I then totally cool about it, Katelyn brought me my beer, and I calmed down about it.
This isn’t so bad, except that when she confronted me about this on Tuesday afternoon in the middle of French class, it caught me totally off guard. Totally and completely. To round out my weekend, I woke up the next day at around 5pm, went up for dinner at Doug’s at 6pm, and that was that. The next Sunday was considerably more interesting, but you’ll have to hear about that next time, as it occurs to me just how long this blog is getting (and I’ve still got two more weeks to cover!). Needless to say, I never heard from Nameless. He wanted to hang out Sunday, but was MIA as well. I’ll have Part 2 of the story tomorrow or so.
[please note, I am currently watching the Eugene News, and the 8 year old girl they just interviewed about the new Duck plane that Horizon Air launched sounded retarded. Like ‘I need to be in SPED’ retarded. We’re talking, ‘I can’t say more than three words at a time’ retarded. Which makes me wonder a few things- why is a new plane coming in the school colors considered news in this town? Why is the news interviewing people about it? And why would they pick a retarded girl to interview about it?!]
[also, please note that I think it’s really funny that on the wheel of fortune right now, they’ve got the two best Mormon girlfriends playing alongside the two gay guys who are going off to Costa Rica…what is wrong with television?]

And as an addendum- I see that I posted a blog about 16 days ago. I have NO RECOLLECTION of doing that. Oh well...

The Ramblings

2008-01-13T03:50:00.000-08:00

I guess when the Muse speaks, she speaks. Here I sit, after a night of being out and about and being social…if perhaps I’m missing something. Drunk as I may be, and drunk is a fairly lose description, because I’m always in some state of inebriation, I can’t help but read my books and be transported to somewhere that is, if not better, but at least preferable to where I am now. How is it that I feel so alone? That I feel like I’m the only one that sees? That I’m the only one that really cares? I don’t ask for so much and yet sometimes it feels like no one else around me really cares or sees or wants to see. I just wanted happiness and equality, and I am wondering if, at the end of my days, that’s something that I’m every going to see. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but I’m beginning to think that all my dreams of a happily ever after are just that- dreams. That it’s all a pipe dream, that at the end of it, me and all the other homos out there, we’re never going to see real equality, that it’s all just going to be motions and jumping through hoops.
I asked God tonight why he made me this way. And evasive as always, he gave me no direct answer. But I’m a very vocal person. I think perhaps I am the way I am so that I can make an example of us. That’s we’re not all like Will or Jack on Will and Grace, that we’re normal humans with normal dreams. That we have normal dreams for this life. I just hope I can get enough people to understand. This life is so fragile, this life that all of us have, and it scares me to think that we’re going to lose it before we can ever make any real progress. That is what truly terrifies me, that I’ll never get the message out there. That we deserve to be treated just like everyone else. That we’re not going anywhere. That we’re not some foreign, incomprehensible species. That we have looked up on the beauty of this world and felt the same indescribable joy that you have. Don’t forget who we are. Don’t forget that we are your friends and relatives. Don’t forget that we are in this just as much as you are.

The Sound of Gayness

2008-01-07T19:23:00.000-08:00

So, I am sitting here idly contemplating my evening, trying to cover from the debaucheries and misadventures of a weekend taken a bit too far (but with some surprising and pleasing...well, surprises along the way). I am listening to the Sound of Music and singing out loud, while idly surfing some porno sites at the same time (I mean, what's it really matter in the end, right?). I spent my afternoon trying not to be sick on everyone (that's what I get for totally getting fucked up all weekend) and to make it through my classes without crying (Spanish sucks, so far, which is a total downer). I think I've a date tonight, which should be fun, and I bought an iPod today, which I've been configuring for the past two hours. While sitting here and relaxing, browsing the available porno and listening to the Sound of Music, it occurs to me just how...well, gay that is. I mean, seriously. It's terribly gay. I'm looking at porn and listening to the Sound of Music. I can sing all the songs I have from memory...God, what happened to me?

And was anyone else aware that the phrase "table d'hote" is the opposite of "a la carte?" I had no idea. Thank you, Julie Andrews!

The Drunken Debauchery

2008-01-06T11:54:00.000-08:00

All right, I'm breaking down. It's 10:15 am, which is ridiculously early for me. I literally haven't been awake this early if I'm not going to work this entire break. I sleep till 3pm, daily. But for some reason, I simply cannot get back to sleep at the moment. Perhaps it's because I have a blister on my Achilles tendon from my new boots and it's throbbing like a bitch. Or perhaps it's because I have the taste of cigarettes, alcohol, vomit and, oh yes, everyone's favorite thing to eat on a drunken night at 2 am, pita in my mouth, thanks to the drunken debauchery that was my night last night. It might also have to do something with the fact that I appear to still have the spins, despite the fact that I am certain I am no longer drunk. Whatever the reason, I'm awake and loving it, what with all these thoughts swirling around in my head, so I figured, what the hell, let's go write a blog! To prove my friend Deborah right, I am indeed a fucking steaming pile of freak-show.

So there are two thoughts that I'm having that are swirling around in my head right now, for two fairly similar reasons. The first one has to do with a friend of mine. I always joke with my girlfriends that I'm looking for a gay version of one of my friends because he's, well, Practically Perfect in Every Way (he is also Probably Reading This Right Now). I think I also joke with him about this when I'm mostly not sober, but I'll have to confer with him on that for confirmation. I claim that I'm looking for his "gay twin" because he has a charming personality and a sense of humor that's sharp but doesn't cut (unlike mine), he is physically quite attractive in Just the Right Way (i.e. he's not perfect but it's actually a good thing) and he's all around a decent human being (that last one kind of makes it impossible to find a gay version, as there are no decent gay people). Now this all sounds well and good in theory, I know. But that's the problem; it's only a good idea in theory. I never actually counted on, you know, finding him.

So what's the problem there, right? I mean wonderful! I found him! Oh, and just for the record, he likes guys too! Great, right?

Wrong. You see, I realize that I was taking something for granted. It's all well and good to find Version 2.0…but that doesn't mean that he's going to be interested in me. No no, folks. All this time, here I was, I just took it as a foregone conclusion that I would find the guy and boom, 'everything would work itself out.' Who knew that you both have to like each other and be interested in dating for it to work out? Apparently I'm great one night stand material, totally cool. We're all gravy with that. But as for actually, like, hanging out and doing stuff, oh no, we can't go there. Sorry 'bout that…which, of course, basically precludes anything else. Oops. Guess I missed the memo that I've got the "I make a great one night stand" note stapled to my back. Thanks for that.

I'm actually not to upset about this in the god-I'm-so-butthurt way. It doesn't bother me that much that it was a one night stand. I've had them before and I know I will again. It sort of frustrates me though because I wouldn't have gone through with it had I know that there would be no follow through, and I was sort of led to believe that there would be more hanging out in the future. Not necessarily dating, not necessarily hooking up, but as I'm trying to not have one night stands anymore, it would be nice to know that when I hook up with someone, they're not going to want to see me again. I can respect being told that, if they can respect being told that we're not going to hang out if it's a one night stand. It's his prerogative and I can respect that. I can respect just looking for some quick fun or just needing some company for one night or scratching an itch or [insert whichever applicable phrase necessary here]. I just would like to be informed up front that it's not going to be anything more. Silly me, formerly the King of One Night Stands, I've forgotten the rules of my own game…good thing I took that Brian Kinney banner off my MySpace page.

The other problem I have is that I seem to pick the most awkward evenings to engage in complete-and-total-drunken debauchery. I'm talking about last night, of course. I would pick the night when all of my friends decide to turn tail and run save for my girls. We started off the evening at my brother's apartment (which happens to be totally and wizardly swank) before my girlfriend and I moved on towards downtown and the bars. Where no one showed up, save for her one girlfriend that was meeting her. We drank in the car, I had more drinks elsewhere, I had some more drinks elsewhere…you get the picture. Needless to say, there were vomit specs on the toilet this morning to greet my brother.

So of course, this is also the night that I would run into Mysterious Internet Crush in person for the first time ever. A bit of back story for this. I've been surfing internet social networking sites since my senior year of high school, which is the first time I ever saw this kid (on XY.com). This was ages ago, when I was still mostly crazy and ugly. I've seen him on MySpace, Facebook, and a handful of other sites as well, and I've maintained this little secret pining for him. He's pretty in all the right ways, and more or less my opposite (blond, shorter than I, slender, fair, etc). I've maintained this little crush on him because I figure, what harm can it do? I'll never actually meet him and even now, one of us is most certainly way out of the other's league. I'm not sure which, and I'm also not sure if we're playing the same sports, but who knows, right? In any event, I still have, well, maybe had, the crush until today/yesterday-ish. Precise, right?

So last night, in the middle of my drunken rave, I notice the blond bombshell from a distance and through a fog of alcohol. I mention this to one of my girlfriends, and then later to one of my guyfriends. Of course, my guyfriend insists that it would be a great idea for me to meet him. I am not too drunk to realize that I am too drunk for this to be a good idea, so I tell him no. And so predictably, a moment later, my friend is leading Blond Boy over to me, under the guise of who knows what. He then sets Blond Boy down next to me (almost literally) and leaves without a word. Blond Boy is staring at me like I've got a starfish on my face, so I try to explain this whole situation and make it go away without me looking retarded (at that moment). It was one of the few problems I couldn't just throw money at to make it disappear, so, predictably, I lied my way out of this (sort of) by explaining the actual, legitimate connection that Blond Boy and I have. One of my best girlfriends, Katelyn, is best friends with one of his best girlfriends, making a convenient little square. This is how I explained away the fact that I wanted to meet him, which is sort of a legitimate excuse. The mutual friend of Katelyn and Blond Boy had mentioned the name of best gay friend on New Years Eve while Katelyn and I were at her house at a party. I remarked that the name sounded familiar, so she showed me who it was and- who woulda thunk it- they are one and the same person, Blond Boy, the dirty little distance crush I've been nursing for nigh on four years.

Turns out that meeting Blond Boy turns out to be sort of a…mistake. I think the crush may have been one of those things that is better left forever unrequited because meeting him takes all the life and color out of a fantasy. Or perhaps I just have to meet him while sober and not needing to lie my face off. Either or, right? The first thing I realize is that he is not as cute in person. He is still cute, but he is very…well, gay. I can't think of any other way to describe it. This is not the hoodie-wearing surfer-water-polo boy I fell for on XY all those years ago. Now I realize why people buy and use Photoshop for MySpace- again, not that he's ugly at all. He's actually very, very, very pretty. But that's it. He's pretty. Dreamy, literally. Which, I realize, isn't really my thing. I need gritty and dirty and messy sometimes, and I definitely have a thing against Photoshopping your photos to make them more "pretty." I need someone that can get down and dirty, and not look like they're going to break themselves or a nail doing it. Which, while Blond Boy was heartbreakingly beautiful...I don't know. He might have been too elegant and beautiful for me. I dunno. Anyhow.

From there, it sort of went downhill. Once I meet him and we exchange more than, like, two sentences, I realize a number of things that bother me in very quick succession. First, I noticed that he had a very week handshake, which bothers me terribly. I mean, we're men. A firm handshake is very important. I'm not a woman. You're not going to break me, grab my hand, dammit, and gimme a shake! I let this one slide, because honestly, judging gay people for their handshake is like judging a cow for being spotted, and we continue to talk. After a few sentences, I realize two more things. First, he is very awkward. Now, on the one hand, he has just been kindly uprooted from his conversation and set smack dab down next to a dashingly handsome young man whose babbling about nothing and acting the part of a sot quite well at the moment (quite the image, I know). I can understand that this would make anyone awkward. But on the other hand, this has actually happened to me before (and in a foreign country no less, where there was most definitely a language barrier) and I somehow managed to make it not awkward, and not conduct myself like a puppet with cut strings. Is it wrong to measure others against the standards with which I measure myself?

The second thing I realize is that he constantly looks like he's trying to think very hard, and that he is trying to think very hard about something very interesting about four inches above my left shoulder. I was sort of unsure why he kept looking at me (er, next to me) like this, and it was sort of unnerving after a while. He looked really interested in whatever it was. Like, perhaps my little Devil and Angel manifestations suddenly became visible, but I doubt it, because they were both remarkably reticent at that moment. When he looked at my face, he would look at it with darting little glances as though I had something, not ugly, but very bizarre on my face- hence my referencing a starfish, because it's the least horrifying but strangest thing I can imagine seeing on someone's face at the moment. He kept glancing at my face as though this giant starfish were on it, somehow speaking to him and wearing glasses. This began to bother me, after a time, and so when I could no longer take the staring and I had managed to extricate my foot from my mouth (for the time being, anyway), I dismissed him. And then went to get myself another drink. Because really, after having your Dream Boy shattered into pieces and left at your feet in a big pile of starfish-awkwardness there is no other way to recover than to push yourself ever further down that little road that leads to the Big R (that would be Rehab).

I realize that I am coming out of this break with both of my major Dream Men having been left broken at my feet. This sort of sucks, and leaves me with two lessons: be careful what you wish for, and never meet your heroes or idols. I think it's generally safer to just wish and hope and dream from afar, because up close, they become all gritty and grainy and humany, not like the perfect image we've got worked up in our brain. It's sort of like the television. From far away it's a pretty picture, but if you go and stick your nose up to it, you can see that it's all just little squares of red, blue and green, all just a trick of your eyes. With a big grease spot on it from your nose.

So now that those thoughts are out of my head (and it's an hour and a half after I started writing this), I think perhaps it's time for me to try to get a bit more shuteye. After all, I have to make an effort to drive to Eugene today and I don't really want to go careening off the road as I lapse back into sleep or a hangover-induced daydream. Oh, wait, that's what I've got the adderall for. Hot.

The Post New Years Post (wait, what?)

2008-01-04T02:01:00.001-08:00

I am the biggest fool to ever, you know, live. Details forthcoming. It's amazing I haven't forgotten how to breathe. And I have the Google spell-check toolbar to ensure that this post is even legible.
Actual funny stuff will be forthcoming, once I've actually got funny stuff to write about.

The Survival

2008-01-01T20:27:00.000-08:00

It’s basically official that retail is the worst industry in the world. Seriously. I am not kidding. Nothing in my life has ever made me feel more like a worthless piece of under-appreciated shit. People walk all over me and complain at me- both my employers and the customers. And all for eight fucking dollars an hour. I make 20 cents above minimum wage! “Plus commission.” Great, because that last is the best part of the whole kick in the fucking nuts. Seriously. I spend all day dealing with retards. Once upon a time, this somehow felt like I was actually doing something worthwhile with my time. Now I just feel like I’m getting paid to be abused. At one point, I actually worried about and cared about work. Now, others just expect me to go the extra fucking mile and pick up their fucking slack when they’re lazy or irresponsible or disorganized. And you know what? At one point, perhaps I would have. But now it feels far too often like I’m a) taken for granted and b) that people expect me just to roll over like a fucking lap dog. And you know what? At eight fucking dollars an hour, I ain’t getting paid enough to fucking care anymore. I don’t want to get fired. I’m still going to do my job. But an hourly wage of eight bucks simply isn’t enough for me to feel the need to go out of my way anymore. I’m just not concerned anymore. If I was making 10 bucks an hour, I would definitely think about it. I would definitely feel like being a team player. If I felt like perhaps I was getting some support, if I felt like perhaps people were willing to go out of their way and do me a favor (and not putting me on the schedule while I’m in school doesn’t count) then I wouldn’t feel so bad, either. But shit rolls down hill, and it all collects at the bottom. Where I am.
Now, I have a good boss. I am lucky in that respect. He’s a standup guy and it’s not his fault that I make shit for cash. But there are other co-workers floating around that are basically one step up from useless and their shit rolls down on me. And at my pay rate, it’s not worth it. It just isn’t.
Aside from this, it makes me crazy because I realize that this industry isn’t for me. This industry isn’t going anywhere that I want to follow. I don’t want to be a retail manager.
People complain about sitting at desks because it’s boring and they get fat and blah blah blah. You know what? Your job may be boring, but so is mine. And you get benefits and at the end of the day, you go home and stop thinking about it. I on the other hand live with the more or less constant fear that at any moment I’m going to get called into work because someone hasn’t shown up, or because there has been a “scheduling mistake” (which of course, is always my fault). And on top of that, getting called into work means I get to spend my day dealing with bitchy people. Sure, people that work at phone centers don’t have it so great. But you know what? You deal with people complaining at you on the phone. They don’t actually know who you are or what you look like. It’s completely different when you actually have people freaking out at you in person. There is no comparison. And you know what? People are fucking retarded. People are evil. People have no concept of being anything but bitchy and stepping on everyone else’s neck when they’re out shopping. It’s making me sick. They might as well give me a lobotomy or replace me with a robot, because anymore my feelings are literally too fragile and my nerves are too frayed for me to deal with these people any more. I can’t help myself when I start snapping and shouting at people because I’ve simply stopped caring. I don’t get paid enough to care anymore. Sure, your job sucks. You sit around all day at a desk, doing whatever you do, and it makes you bored and fat. Well you know what? Go to the fucking gym and stop munching all day at your fucking desk. If I could go to the gym and make people nicer, I would have six pack abs made of the good of the common man, and pecs not of steel but pecs of peace on earth and goodwill towards men. But I can’t do that.
Time to find a new industry. Until then, I’ve got to keep trying to survive. Seriously.

The Christmas Blog

2007-12-26T02:17:00.000-08:00

I thought after all my fairly depressing (or at the very least, "deep," non-humorous material), it was time to write something a bit more funny than I had been.
As most of you know, I'm a retail slave. It's not so bad, actually. Sure, it can be rough doing this around Christmas, but the rest of the year it's not a bad job. Actually, it's a pretty good job (working at SGH, I mean).
But what the one thing about retail slavery during Christmas that makes you realize something- Christmas is supposed to be a time of goodness and sharing and kindness and all that good crap. And you know what? Christmas is the distillation of the antithesis of everything it stands for (or purports to stand for, anyway).
I work around people all day, working with the general public, selling them stuff that, I'll be honest, a lot of them don't need (that is kinda hard for me, selling people things that they don't need, but oh well, it's only my ethics...or maybe my morals...and I'm sure that [whichever it is] those feelings will be dead sooner or later). I see the nitty-gritty underbelly of society, and living half of my life in an affluent shopping mall, sometimes that's pretty disturbing. People are scary, stupid, lazy, ugly, cruel snobs that generally think of little more than themselves.
And the scary thing is that during this season, a season that is supposed to be all about loving each other and giving and helping and caring, it only gets worse. A thousand times worse. So, now that Christmas is all done and what not, it’s time to clarify some things about the worst of Christmas. Let’s do this-
Okay, first of all, if you think something is cool, that does not make it legit. When you pick something out or you see something you like and you tell me it’s legit, you sound like a fucking retard. You spend a lot of time secretly enjoying things that are illegit? Do you only announce things you like by proclaiming them to be legit? What the fuck do you mean by legit, anyway? Are there lots of shadowy projects that are all somehow illegit? Seriously, stop telling me that things are legit, and pick a new goddamn word- because calling things legit makes you sound like an illegitimate child and the product of incest on multiple sides.
On the not of what we’re talking about- do not call me bro. Ever. I have four brothers and they are allowed to call me “bro.” But you are not. You are a fucking stranger that, generally, comes into my store and annoys me by being an annoying asshole that thinks he’s legit and not buying anything. So shut up. Don’t call me bro. I am not your brother. I don’t know you. And if I did, I probably wouldn’t like me. I have a word for people that insist on calling everyone bro- “tool.”
I don’t know if this is so much a complaint as it is just general confusion about politics and ettique. What is the proper thing to do when a fat person makes a fat joke about themselves? Are we supposed to laugh? Do we agree? Are we supposed to tell them that they are not fat when obviously they are? How the hell does one respond to this? This has happened to me twice at work now (and both times, the people were fairly fat- one person was so morbidly obese that they had to use a wheel chair) and all I can say is, “what the hell do I do when it comes to responding?” I can fake a laugh at a joke as well as the next guy. But a fat joke about a fat person when they make it about themselves?
My next beef is pretty simple. If you are going to by something by an expensive brand, please don’t put your foot in your mouth by butchering the name. If you can’t pronounce Versace (it’s Ver-saw-chee) or Dolce and Gabbana (Dole-chay and Gah-bah-nah) then you shouldn’t be allowed to by it. I one more person asks for the “Dols” (like dolt, only with an s) or “Versays,” I’m going to rip their throat out with my teeth.
One of my biggest pet peeves is the boyfriend or husband or wife or whatever that thinks that it’s absolutely important that they have the final say in what their significant other wears.
Okay, look. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean that your SO shouldn’t or can’t buy it. Hopefully, you’re not the only person that ever sees your SO; hopefully they have a job or friends or a social life or whatever. Your boyfriend or girlfriend has to spend a lot of time away from you. And just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean that a) your SO has to dislike it, and b) that everyone else will dislike it as well. So you don’t like it. So what? You don’t have to wear whatever the god-awful thing is that you, in your style-less mire, seem to like. You just have to look at it. You don’t have to look like a fucking tool while wearing whatever it is that you pick out for them. Figure that shit out, bitches. You don’t like it? Deal. You’re still going to love them- and if you can’t love them because you don’t like their sunglasses or coat or whatever, you have serious issues, and need serious therapy.
What is it about people that think they can haggle? What is it about Christmas that seems to bring all the hagglers out into the open, all the time? Our company did not set a price on something because we want to hide the secret discount price from you so that you can haggle your way to it. The price is the fucking price. This isn’t Arabia or China or Mexcio. This isn’t an open air market. This is a huge, corporate enterprise and they only want to screw you and make money. You can’t haggle with me. Stop trying.
Obesity frustrates me. Unless you have a legitimate reason (like a disability or a hormonal disorder) fucking get your fat ass on a treadmill and lose some of that fucking weight. Stop stuffing your face with McDonald’s. Seriously. I see so many fat fucks gorging every day outside the McDonald’s next to my work and it makes me sick. It’s fine if you eat McDonald’s. I do it. But keep yourself fucking healthy by going to the gym or cutting back your carbo intake. Is it that hard? You do not have a glandular disorder. You are a fat piece of crap. And you know what? I’m going to end up supporting you fat fuckers because you’re all going to need health cover and it’s going to cost me, because a lot of you are in lower income brackets. I don’t feel it’s fair for me to pay for the health coverage you are going to need because you’re too lazy and/or gluttonous to stay healthy. Fuckers.
The last thing I’m going to say (because I’m getting really horny and it’s that time of night for me to have some “me time”) is that if your all the hair on your head is its natural color (i.e. un-dyed), your hair and eyebrows are black and your beard is red, honest to God, actual red, like Irish red, one of them has to go. This is unacceptable. Pick one color for your head because they can’t cohabit on your face- it makes you look like a freak. Got it?
Well, that’s gonna be it for now. That’s everything shallow. I think I’ll have some actual deep stuff to pick apart later. Just remember- Christmas blows!

The Heart-fire

2007-12-20T17:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve finally managed to finish reading the Book (see the Birthday Blog for details) and after reading it again, all the way through, fully, for a second time, and really thinking about it six years after that first reading, I realize that I missed a few things that simply didn’t register the first time through.
I’m still dealing with the feeling that here I am, alone, an emotionally retarded 22-year-old. I’ve had my whole one relationship, and while it pains me to think that it wasn’t a balanced relationship, not in the way that it should have been, it’s something. Love is love. And for what it’s worth, my time spent with Ivan, no matter how little it was, means a lot to me still. It means more to me than a great deal of my memories. I got burned so badly at the end of the summer, literally the day before sailing off for the island universe that is college that I think I spent too much time bemoaning what happened over the summer and not enough time grieving for what I lost when I left Spain. I spent the summer running from what I had lost that I ran straight into a terrible mess because I was too stupid to look ahead and think. And at the end of it, I was more fucked up than when I started.
But I’ve realized something else, now that everything is finally settling out, and re-reading the book has really helped me to realize this. After my encounter with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, I realized that settling is not a viable option, not in life, not in love. It’s wrong to settle, because those things you’re overlooking when you choose to settle don’t go away- it’s like trying to ignore a tumor. They just grow ever larger until they’ve consumed you. No, settling is wrong. Then I started reading, which only made me long all the more for finding someone that I real feel like I can understand and connect with. And of course, the trap there, is that we let our desire blind us to that, we let that need to find a connection blind us to the curse that is settling. All other connections seem to pale in comparison to Love, to that real, deep bond that, I am still convinced two people that are really committed to can actually share. It’s a bond that transcends arguments and petty squabbles- not that they don’t happen, because they’ll happen a lot- but a bond that overcomes everything, because we have faith in that connection, we have faith in ourselves, and faith in the other person. That’s the most important thing, that in and of itself. That faith. And while we look for that, we can so often be tricked into settling for something false, which only fosters doubt, not faith, and only leaves us feeling worse in the end- all that glitters is not gold, kinda thing (believe me, I know that one for a fact).
No, in the end what I realize is that, while I still have this real, deep need to find someone I can connect with, someone to have faith in and that will have faith in me, I can’t settle. And while I may want to just wall off my emotions, put them on a back shelf and never think about them again, turn into some crystalline Prince of Ice, what good does that do me, in the end? Just because I’ve once eaten a sumptuous feast, must I ever after deny myself the humbler foods like Top Ramen and canned ravioli? Because I’ve slept on a memory foam mattress, must I never rest again on my own, hard, semi-lumpy futon? There is nothing wrong with taking what I can get from my friends and my family, from the support they have to offer me. Just because I do not have that perfect connection with someone does not mean that I cannot have a connection with anyone. And what does that do to my friends and family? I may want to wall off myself and simply go to ice, I may want to turn away from the heart-fires of my friends and my relations, but really, is that an answer? What about those that would warm themselves by my heart-fire? That need me and take comfort in my presence? Is that fair to those that need and love me, that depend on me for support sometimes?
No, it isn’t fair, and I think I can see that at last. Sure, it may be hard, sometimes, walking on a long road. But I’m not walking alone, of that much I am certain. And while I may not have found someone that’s walking the same road as me, and wants to walk it with me (for a burden shared is a burden halved), but there are others that are willing to go part of the way, many that have persisted through the years and that shall persist through the years ahead, regardless of who else may be walking at my side. And that is what makes this worthwhile. I certainly hope that, at some point before the End of the Road, I will find someone else willing to share their burden in exchange for part of mine. But until then, there are others along the way that are certainly willing to help as well. And who am I to turn them away?

The Winter Blog

2007-12-17T17:54:00.001-08:00

The Wintry Blog
I’m definitely becoming a nocturnal creature. I haven’t been actually and fully awake during the daylight hours in days. And all I can think is, “eh, whatever, my dad wouldn’t be too happy about this.”
I’m still feeling sort of lost about everything. It made me feel good that people felt the need to inform me that my last blog was somehow a) inspiring while b) being depressing. And the fact that people seem to actually applaud the idea that somewhere in the world there remains one last hopeless romantic, that also makes me feel real good (insert that, you know, accent thingy that goes with real).
It is still winter, which still sucks. Winter is, somehow, the worst season that has ever existed. I can’t really say why, but it’s just the absolute season out of all…four, of them. Okay, so there aren’t a lot of seasons, but I’m going to spend one fourth of my life in this horrible, wet, dank, dark, cold, winter thing, and that’s upsetting. Coupled with my whole issue of being the Last Hopeless Romantic, the fact that I work night shift, and that I hate the dark, I guess it’s no surprise that I spend all my time sleeping. At least I have bright dreams, or something.
I’ve been trying to think of something funny to write as I watch television. And it’s just not going to happen. Television really does suck the brain right out of your head. It’s the beta waves! The beta waves!
And as a final aside…I realize that, somehow, I am living the inverse of Will and Grace (I’m talkin’ about me and the Katelyns, right now, because really, I spend most of my time in Eugene). The only problem is, I can’t figure out which one of them is Jack…

The Birthday Blog

2007-12-15T04:13:00.000-08:00

So, as I always try to write a blog on or around my birthday, here’s this year’s attempt. Actually, I guess technically this isn’t an attempt, because I can’t fail, and the word “attempt” implies the possibility of failure. Unless, of course, I just never post the blog. But that’s beside the point.
Please note- this blog isn’t really very funny. So if you only read me because “I’m funny,” you’re a) foolish (because I’m not funny) and b) this isn’t a funny blog entry at all. It’s “serious” (and if you believe that, you’re still foolish, because I’m neither funny nor serious- I’m a halfwit).
Anyway, so it’s my birthday. Well, it was, like 4 days ago. I’m another year older. I didn’t actually internalize this until this evening. While watching Chelsea Lately on E! tonight, it was slapped in my face very unceremoniously for the first time that I am not young anymore. I mean, okay. I’m not, like, Methuselah or my father or something, but I am not a kid anymore. What brought this realization so abruptly to my attention? I am older than VJ Bragon or whatever his name is on America’s Most Smartest Model. Albeit, I’m probably only a few months older, but still, my odometer has ticked over a few more miles than his has. And if that’s what a 21 year old is supposed to look like then it’s going to be a long, hard road down to the bottom from here on out for me. I know, I know, it’s not healthy to compare myself to television or media personalities. But seriously. He’s like a freakin’ Adonis, and obviously he’s not so stupid he’s forgotten how to breathe. How the hell can I compete with that? I feel old, old and ugly. I almost feel crotchety (I actually feel crotchety a lot, but that’s just generally when I have a hang over). Seriously though. I’m not 21 anymore. I am another year older.
Now, I’ve learned a lot in the 22 years since I was squirted out of someone’s uterus via there birth canal (aka my mother and aka her vagina- sorry, Knocked Up is still stuck in my head…*shudder*). I’ve learned a lot about myself as a person and about other people and about right and wrong and blah blah blah. I’ve been, you know, alive and observant (more or less). But as I do sometimes, I decided that I wanted to retreat into a fantasy world for a while by immersing myself in a book, and I decided, after having it recently returned to me by my dearest soul mate, that it was time to re-read, again, the book that has arguably had more influence in my life than any other book. It’s actually had more influence in my life than most people. It’s a fantasy book (and I realize how sad it is that a fantasy book changed my life) but it’s also the book that made me realize I was gay. This book was the first exposure of any sort I ever had to a gay relationship, and it was the first exposure I had to the fact that such relationships can have positive aspects (well, in principle, if not in practice). And I have to say, that reading it again has made me realize a lot of things. A lot of things that are, in some way, deeply troubling me. But first, some back story.
I’m sure you’re probably asking yourself (or your computer screen) how it is that a fantasy book of all things was my first exposure to gay relationships. No, I wasn’t a particularly sheltered child. My parents were positive, open-minded people. I knew what “fags” and “gays” and “lesbians” and all that stuff meant. I had asked my parents at the…well, we’ll say “tender,” just for shits and giggles, age of about 11 or 12 what it meant when someone was actually gay. My parents matter-of-factly explained that these people were “homosexuals,” which meant that they were attracted to and preferred to have sex with people of the same gender. They passed no judgment about it, just gave me the low-down on what being gay meant. Again, at the tender age of 11-12, I took this quite literally (I’ve always been a fairly linear thinker in some ways). I didn’t understand that they had relationships and fell in love (on that last bit, I’m still looking for actual, physical, verifiable evidence that they do- but I’m assured that it does happen in theory). I just thought that being gay meant lots and lots of fucking and that was it, no attachments at all. Sue me for being literal minded (and uncannily prescient for a preteen, much to my current dismay).
Now, I was more or less raised with the ideal that my parents had walked a more or less typical road- go to high school, be “popular” and have girlfriends/boyfriends, go to college, join the Greek System, get another girlfriend/boyfriend, graduate, get married, have kids, live happily ever after. I also believed that my parents, more or less, were, or had been, at least, happy. My parents had already split up at this point, but when you’re raised in the continual presence of people that went down this road and you have limited exposure to any other sort of life path (thanks, parents), any sort of deviation from that can be…well, hard to cope with. I always assumed that this was what the future had in store for me, and I was more or less stoked. As stoked as a pre-teen can be, anyway. I was stoked to have girlfriends, I was stoked to go high school so I could have them, I was stoked to go to college so I could meet my future wife- because that’s one third of what college was for. My parents never explicitly said any of that, but the way they always talked about things, that was the definite, lasting impression that was left. You went to college to meet your wife, to meet your future circle of friends that you would have For The Rest of Your Life (thanks again, parents) and you went to get a degree. Now, I was as curious as any prepubescent can be about Doing It, but I never really thought of that- you put a penis (normally your penis) in another girl’s vagina and that was that. You humped each other, stuff came out, and if you weren’t on the pill or wearing a condom (thank you public sex education system- and people say it doesn’t work) you got a baby nine months later. That was all a given, what people did that Loved each other.
Where did this come into conflict with my concept of being gay? Thanks to the continual image of the Way that my future would go, I knew that I wanted to be in a relationship. I have wanted that as my Golden Dream for almost as long as I can remember. It’s “What You Do.” I’m sure that my early experiences socially and having cancer produced a lot of alienation issues in my life, but that’s sort of beside the point. The way I saw it, that’s just how life worked. The fact that my life would progress in this way (regardless of what my parents did, if they divorced or fought or whatever) was as immutable a fact as the Law of Gravity or that you looked both ways before crossing the street or that you didn’t drive drunk. This was the Way in which my life Was Going to Turn Out, and there was no other possible alternative. Being gay meant just having lots and lots of sex- which, of course, can be all well and good (and now that I actually have a sex drive, it can be all well and good, getting it when you need it and not worrying about attachments, but that’s another story)- but never worrying about getting entangled with another person emotionally, falling in Love, settling down, having a family, et cetera blah blah blah whatever. And that bothered me. Not in that it was Wrong somehow, but simply because that wasn’t the life I wanted. That wasn’t the Life that was in store for me. I was Destined to be In Love and have a Beautiful Wife and Wonderful Children. It was written in the stars, or whatever.
Even when my sex drive turned on a few years later, I still maintained this image. This is what I was going to do. I had grown into a fairly awkward young teenager, but there are opportunities for everyone that wants to take them. I knew that I was attracted to guys on a conscious level. Men turned me on from a distance, but I loved women (I still love women) and that was enough for me. I love being around them, I love talking to them, I loved just about everything about them. Even though my first make-out session with a girl turned out to be sort of disastrous (she threw herself on me under the trees at the corner of the field on the last day of 8th grade, and I threw her off after about 10 seconds), I still didn’t realize that there was a problem. When I had a girlfriend in high school (Yes, I had one…and I did a recent totaling up of the time I was with her…and it’s still the longest relationship I’ve ever maintained. Fuck) we had no problem making out. I was a freshman, of course, and I was intelligent enough to know that I wasn’t equipped upstairs to start Doing It with her, so I never really pressed that, save for once to talk about it. I still also knew that I was physically interested in men. By this point I had started looking at what amounted to soft-core, gay porn, but it was easy to justify. I knew that there were lots of kinky guys in the world, and that there were lots of guys who were still straight that got turned on my guys (there were some very useful books in the local Barnes and Noble that helped me to find out at a young age that sexuality wasn’t the rigid and stratified thing that Teenage Culture wants us to believe it is- and if it came out of a book, I believed it like the Word of God). I still wanted to be in a relationship, I wanted to have relationships, and being gay meant that was impossible.
As my girlfriend and I drifted apart (she was turning into a petty bitch, basically), I was starting to realize that a) I wanted to try fooling around with a guy, because it seemed interesting and b) that wanting to do that probably made me less than straight. I still wanted a girlfriend (as what other choices were there? Gay men didn’t have relationships!) so I knew I still had some major vestige of heterosexuality left in me, but there was definitely something going on in my hormone-addled brain as well, something that I knew wasn’t happening to the other guys I went to school with. When the first guy that I had fooled around with ended up coming out, that only added to my confusion.
During my freshman and sophomore year of high school, I regularly attended church, once a week, every week. I started making friends at my church (it’s been our regular church since I was very little) and it was about this time (about February of my sophomore year) that I met Murray. He was the elder brother of a really cute girl at church, and he had long black hair that he kept tied back in a pony tail. I knew he was a year older than me, and for some reason, I felt drawn to him in a way that I had no way to explain. I had never felt this way before, and had no precedent for the feelings that he evoked in me. I had never seen a man in person that actually turned me on. I had never seen another student or anyone I knew, for that matter, to whom I’d ever felt even an inkling of sexual attraction. I’d already been fooling around with two of my friends at this point, one of them pretty regularly, but that was little more than hormones and the fact that we were thick as thieves. There was never any real joke, not at that point, that we might like each other. We never talked about that. We never kissed. We didn’t think each other was hot. But neither of us could get girls to put out (it didn’t help that, by this point, I’d basically stopped trying) and as we were as close as two guy friends could get, it seemed a logical solution to our mutual problem. But then Murray came along. And here I was. I was smitten with him. I was newly 16 by now, and adolescence and its awkwardness were in full swing.
During my sophomore year of high school, my former circle of friends had essentially disintegrated, and I was left alone. I fell in with a new group of friends that I met through CATS, and I started feeling more comfortable with being myself. One of these girls in particular I was drawn to. Not in a sexual way at all, but in an indescribable emotional way, as though I had found the first person on earth that really understood what was going on in my head (she, it would turn out, would become my first Wife). I tried to get closer to her, because, by this point, I realized that something was definitely going on in my head. She was a very hot girl. And I felt nothing for her. No desire to bang her, no desire to date her or make her my girlfriend. Only this desire to spend all my time with her because she “got me.” Between this oddity (guys were definitely NOT supposed to feel like women really “got them” in that way), and Murray in church, I was slowly turning into a wreck.
What was wrong with me? I was absolutely physically and emotionally smitten with this boy. I had some very strange fantasies that involved talking about books and getting coffee and cuddling and such- I never really retained details of those things, not then- and after a while, I became so infatuated with him that I had to stop going to church. I was no fool. He was a Good Catholic Boy from a Good Catholic Family (I want to say he had at least 6 siblings, and I think they had either been home school, all of them, or they had all gone to Catholic Schools from day 1). I had no chance in Hell. And sure, the fantasies were great, but it started wearing on me. I knew, I knew, that nothing would ever come of it. It was just as impossible that something might happen with him as me being beatified as the Patron Saint of Confused Teenage Proto-Homosexuals. It was not only impossible for him to like me because he was a Good Catholic Boy (And, necessarily, straight) but because Gays didn’t have relationships. You got your gay card in the mail, and the price was One Heart. You gave that up when you became gay. It was as simple as that, and it was killing me, more quickly rather than slowly (thank god my cousin had moved to Portland at the beginning of the school year- his supplying me with booze and weed during this year was a major contributor to the fact that I actually managed to survive. If I hadn’t had those things, I literally probably would have died of stress and confusion).
Then came the Book.
I’d picked up the Book because, I shit you not, I was at Powell’s, looking for something to read. I’ve always been a sci-fi nerd, and I love myself for it. I’d finally finished off the entire Dune saga and a few other random books besides (like the Lathe of Heaven). Having just finished that book, I was in the “L” section, looking for something else by Ursula K. LeGuin, when I came across this book with a long haired man on the front, holding a sword in one hand, doing something magical or whatever with the other, and with a horse in the background. Next to it was a book with the same man at the bottom of a pit and the same horse with him, surrounded by spears. And on the other side of it, the same man, the same horse, in a forest. I picked up the first book and read the back of it, and it sounded interesting enough. Swords and sorcery have always been one of my things, so I figured, “sure, what the hell!” It looked like an easy read, but it was a trilogy, so I had to buy the first one- Magic’s Pawn being the first, Magic’s Promise being the one that had enthralled me so. I don’t know what it was about these books. Certainly it was the covers, but… I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. Maybe it’s the fact that it was a lanky, dark-haired man that was on the cover, someone that resembled me doing what were undoubtedly heroic things that I’d love to be doing but knew I never could. Perhaps I thought he was attractive. Maybe it was Fate. At this point, six years later, I can’t remember. But I remember being absolutely enchanted by this Book, as though it was calling to me from the shelf. I grabbed Magic’s Pawn and went to pay.
I was neck deep in trying to read Sophie’s World at that point, and after another two weeks of drudging through that, I gave up. I didn’t have a particularly large library at this point, and I had read everything else, so what did I do? I picked i, flipped to a random part in the middle and started reading. I read a page or two and was quickly enthralled, so I started over.
It started slowly enough. A teenager who’s the prissy mis-fit of his family is sent away to live and study in the capital of this fantasy land with his bitch-ish aunt. I was a good 77 pages (yes, 77- I just counted) when I was suddenly enthralled. The book had stared slowly enough- none of the swords and sorcery I had expected- but I’d pressed at it, because I remembered the gripping scene I’d read in the middle. I was reading along through a scene where the aunt (Savil) is training one of her students in magic (Tylendel). They finish an exercise, and Savil comments on how Tylendel has improved. He retorts (as 17-year-olds do) that it’s how attractive his teacher is. She snorts at him, and proceeds to make the comment that they “both know that [she’s] the wrong sex [for him] to find [her] attractive.”
That, of course, snagged my interested. I had to re-read the previous three pages to make sure I’d not been mis-reading the pronouns. I had to re-read it three times before I was convinced, and it was like a stove slowly turning on. Someone had written a book with gay characters in it. I had no idea that was even possible. There were gays on TV, but not in sci-fi and fantasy books (Yeah, I was a naïve teenager, leave me alone). I was naturally even more engrossed in the book now. I was already wrapped up in the Plight of the Isolated and Arrogant Teenager (the main character, Vanyel) and I definitely empathized with him far too much. What could I do? I was fairly isolated in real life at this point, and to see that at least someone else had a concept that teenagers could feel isolated like that made me feel better. So I kept reading, devouring the book.
And that’s what did it. Needless to say, the Isolated and Arrogant Teenager turns out to be gay as well and ends up falling in love with Tylendel. They become boyfriends and what not and are madly in love, blah blah blah. It ends tragically a few short chapters later, but that was all it took. This was an earth-shattering revelation for me. Gay people. Gay teenagers. In a book. That fall in love. And have a relationship. For me, this was like waking up one day and realizing I could taste sound, or that I could speak five languages simply by grace, or that…that…well, okay I’ve run out of metaphors, but you get what I’m trying to say.
Suddenly, all these strange feelings I was having- wanting to be in a relationship but liking guys physically- it all made sense. It was like I’d been trying to do math for all these years and had been getting all my answers wrong, only to find out one day that I’d been missing half the numbers. I finished the book one evening in what I think was late April, feeling quite satisfied with myself, and also feeling indescribably liberated. I felt no real fear or trepidation (I had no friends at that point to speak, save for my close three, and I had little fear in telling them, and I was pretty sure that my parents wouldn’t mind). Rather, it was the feeling you get before starting some ineffably long, arduous journey and knowing that you can’t wait to start. I woke up in the morning resolved that it was time to start being who I was. And really owning it meant Coming Out. Which I did the next Monday, to the girl who I’d felt so drawn to. I’d been making inroads ingratiating myself to her. We had gone out that weekend and I had almost told her, but I decided I needed a bit more time to feel her out on it, to decide if she could really be trusted with that kind of a secret. The first day at school, it felt right, so I pulled her aside and told her. And that was it. I was gay, really and truly. Kind of like observing a particle make it’s wave-form collapse into something describable. It was not this nameless, nebulous, unspoken thing that floated in my head. It was Real. And all thanks to the Book.

That was a really long story, but I don’t much feel like shortening it. That’s why the Book was, and is, so important. It was my window into what being gay really meant, the “reality” of it, I’ll say. It made me really see that being gay is normal and good. That it’s not easy, but that it doesn’t mean you simply sell your soul and become a sex-crazed fucking machine (well, in principle, anyway).
So I decided to read it again. And I haven’t read it in ages. Why, you ask, did I want to go back and immerse myself in it?
It’s been a rough year. A weird year. A good year, really, but weird and rough. I’ve learned more about myself this year than I have since I first came out. I had my first Real Gay Relationship, so I’ll say. I mean, the first relationship that’s lasted longer than a month, and that actually Meant something to me and the person I was involved in it with. It was a defining moment for me, because I’ve never really understood the relationship dynamic. It’s a bit difficult to call it a True relationship, though, because I realize that it happened over in Spain, which means a few things. It means that my ex got to know me, and fell in love with me, but not with my Life. Living in Spain was, for the obvious reason, sort of like living life as an island. I was disconnected from my family, from my circles of friends, from my job, my community, everything. Iván fell in love with the person I had forged for myself with the pieces I had been able to bring over from the United States. The internal stuff. But the internal stuff only constitutes a person so far. We’re as much defined by what’s around us, by what we make our lives into, as by what we make ourselves into. And Iván never got to see that. He never got to see any of it. He saw what I had made myself into. Not what I had grown into, but what I had forged myself into. You can’t judge iron by the things you make it into, by the ingots and metals. You can only judge it by the earth from which it’s mined. And that’s the problem. The one Real Relationship I’ve been in, and the person had no concept of who I am as a person in the world. Which, on the one hand, is a good thing. But on the other hand, it’s like loving someone without ever seeing them, without ever seeing them being themselves. And that’s hard for me to deal with. I’ve never had a relationship on this continent that I can actually count as a Relationship. And that bothers me.
I also had a fairly disastrous summer in the relationship department, getting involved with someone that has no idea how to be a normal human being. I invested myself too much in a friendship, not even a relationship, and got burned by it, again. All of it was against my better judgment, and against the better judgment of everyone I know, but I did it anyway, because I convinced myself I could handle it. I was wrong, and it nearly cost me my sanity. I was faced with him again a few weeks ago, and it was good for me, because it forced me to literally stare in the face what it means to settle- which is exactly what being with him would have been. I came away from that wordless encounter as a bigger person, because I finally understood that I shouldn’t have to settle, that settling is not a good thing, and brings no happiness in the end. I’m not talking about settling like, “well, my ideal man would be 1.2 inches taller.” I’m talking settling like, “well, my ideal man would probably have some idea how to be a normal person in society and some concept of the glue that binds human friendship together.” This would have been settling on the order of used chewing gum for a diamond, antifreeze for vodka, or Arby’s for McDonald’s. Having to face that made me feel okay with being single, and it made me feel okay with not rushing out and trying to find someone. You never find people that way, and I’ve learned that the hard and easy ways. But then I re-read the Book again, and again, it made me realize some things about myself. Some important things.
I am having an Issue with Love.
Once I came out, I will be pig-headed and say I definitely climbed my way up the social ladder. I made a lot of new friends, I met a lot of new people, I became a much happier and more extroverted person than I had ever been. I started defining the Man I have become since then, laying the ground work for all that has come since. But I never actually had any other real gay friends, I never had any exposure to other gay teenagers. The one other gay guy I knew and I had ceased to be on speaking terms, for whatever reason I’ll never remember (and the bad blood persists to this day). I had one long standing crush (that took about 5 years to resolve), but that was as far as it went. I never got to experience so many of the things like having your first Boyfriend, falling “in love” and then breaking up a few weeks later. All of those trivial little emotional experiences that seem so insignificant really do add up to a very nontrivial whole. And having had almost no experience with those little trivial things, I am lacking that nontrivial accumulation. I have no concept of what is trivial and what is not in a relationship, and at 22, I am alarmed by this. I don’t have any idea of how to conduct myself in a real relationship now because no one I know my age has been emotionally and amorously retarded as I have. I’ve been stilted and jaded, treated like a piece of ass, a pretty face, or at worst, a potential houseboy, by countless different guys. I’ve been shrugged off time and again because I’m just “not the right one” (which is fine) because there is always someone better than me. Or, I’ve been pursued by guys with such skewed notions of reality and/or what a relationship is that it’s both sickening and scary. Save for Iván, I’ve not had a real, healthy relationship this side of the Charco (That means “puddle” in Spanish…inside joke, sorry). It’s frustrating, because I need to learn from Step One how to have a real, meaningful relationship, and no one my age is really willing to do that. I’ve been out of the closet too long to have any excuse not to know what I’m doing. What hurts the most is when people look at me after I’ve told them I’ve had one relationship and that was with an 18-year-old Spaniard, and the look says, “You’re 22 and you’ve never had a real relationship? What’s wrong with you?”
I actually get that Look, which is an unmistakable one, and with ever increasing frequency. That is immensely and indescribably distressing! I’m not stupid enough to be out there Hunting for a boyfriend- seek and ye shall never find. I try to put myself out there by simply meeting people, but it always seems to go that people fall into each other’s laps the minute I come around, and no one falls into mine. I’m not a terribly picky person, but it would be nice, after six years of this, to know that someone thinks I’m attractive enough physically and mentally to actually consider me as a potential long term mate. What do I consider long term? I’ll give it six months right now. 1 year, hopefully. But I’m tired of being looked at as a great one night stand, or as a great friend with benefits. Those were fine for a while, when sex was new and exciting, when I was a horny 18 year old that had been sex-deprived for two years. But I’m done with that now. Sex is sex, and when it’s over, it’s over, and hopefully you don’t have any permanent souvenirs from the experience. But love, love doesn’t require condoms and lube, and it leaves you with a better feeling that lasts longer than afterglow does. Yet where am I going to find it, being a 22-year-old with the emotional experience of a 16-year-old? I still empathize completely with Vanyel (the main character of the Book), and that scares me on a very deep level for two reasons.
First, it indicates that I’ve not made it past the emotional maturity level of a teenager, simply because I’ve not had the basic experiences that cause growth, and being immature makes you an increasingly unfit mate (it’s like putting a kid who’s only had algebra in an ever-advancing calculus class).
And secondly, it means that I still, on some not-so-deep level, believe that love can be honest and genuine and important to people. I realize that I hope that someday, I’ll get more than One Night in the Name of Love, that I believe maybe Love Is All We Need. That I’ll hear someone say They Were Made for Lovin’ Me, that They Will Always Love Me, and that Love Will Lift Us up Where We Belong. Sure, Love Makes Us Act like We’re Fools. God knows I wanted to Throw My Life Away for One Happy Day (yeah, Spain), but God dammit, I’m getting ever more willing to do that as the days go by, not less. Why? Because I do believe that I will find someone, and sure, Nothing May Keep Us Together, but he and I can Steal Time, Just for One Day, and we’ll be Heroes, Forever and Ever, just because I Will Always Love Him, and he will always love me. And life will be wonderful, because We’re in the World, together (Hey, some people can say it better than me).
And that’s so foolish. It’s terribly foolish. Love has no place in this modern world, in our generation. Love survives on faith and belief and work. There is no mathematical equation to describe love. We cannot quantify it. It is resilient, foolish and blind, but as long as we nourish it, it will overcome everything, save for doubt. And that is what our world is built on- doubt. We are always waiting for the fucking bottom to drop out, because for most of us, the bottom always has dropped out, myself included, and we simply cannot imagine life any other way. We are always looking on the dark side of things, and it kills me that I feel like I’m the only one who feels that way anymore, especially amongst my generation. It is convenient for me to blame the fact that the Baby Boomers were spoiled brats who don’t have a good concept of fairness, give and take, and selflessness, and so they’ve imparted to us a general sense that love is something that is constantly making us happy, that the road upon which love walks has no bumps and potholes. Which, of course, is wrong. Love is something that grows and changes (dare I say, it’s something that deepens?). And it grows and changes with time and by overcoming obstacles- two things that our generation is completely against, that we abhor like the Plague. But what can we do? What can I do? Here I am, an emotionally retarded 22 year-old who’s more able to empathize on an emotional level with a fictional 16-year-old than with the vast majority of his peers, homosexual and heterosexual. What’s happened to us? What’s happened to me?

And how did this blog about a birthday become an 8 page anti-masterpiece that will certainly make anyone who reads this think I am some whiny emo freak with too much time on my hands?

The Saga of Ages Test Run- Feedback Needed

2007-12-06T20:50:00.000-08:00

The Pepperspray and the Taser

2007-12-04T02:27:00.001-08:00

Now, I'm not normally one to say that I am in total support of the rights of celebrities. In general, I believe that celebrities, especially the pathetic 20-something celebrities like Brittney Spears and Paris Hilton, are disgusting. Brittney Spears should not be allowed within 100 feet of children! I doubt her ex husband is a much better parent (but he can't be a worse parent than he is a rapper, anyway) but seriously. It's a fucking miracle we let Brittney Spears behind the wheel of a car, let alone near children. But that's beside the point.
I may think that Brittney Spears is a dirty attention whore (and really just a dirty whore in general), but I also think that she, like everyone else, has a right to privacy. What the fuck is it about the paparazzi nowadays? Is it so important that 1000 photographers try to get a photo of Brittney stepping out of a car? Eating a cheeseburger? Fixing her nylons?
Now, if she were, for example, snorting a line of coke off of, say, Arnold Schwarzenegger's (sp?) erect cock, then fine. I might actually pay money for that (i.e. buying a copy of People or Us Weekly). And even then, it's mainly just going to be to see the Governator's dick. But seriously, what's the point in continually mobbing celebrities (really, for continually mobbing anyone?)? I know that people are out there to make money from these photos. I understand that completely- we've all got to make a buck. But do you actually need whole crowds of paparazzi following people around? Why don't the paparazzi form unions or something? Say, "today is Monday, so that means that 4 photographers are going to follow Brittney around."
Why is that not possible? Every time I see a paparazzo get maced or peppersprayed, I feel good. You don't need to be hounding anyone to just get some shitty shot of someone getting out of their car or getting a mocha. There don't need to be a hundred of you doing it, either. The problems that you folks cause for normal people can be terrible Reckless driving, speeding chases, need more be said? If you're going to mob people over getting some shitty photographs, you deserve to get maced blind as far as I'm concerned. The one reason I would never want to be famous is that I can't imagine not being able to go out in public without being followed by a crowd. I would rather shoot myself.

Another thing that is bothering me is the rise in the number of women carrying tasers. Now, I'm not saying that women shouldn't be allowed to protect themselves- I'm all for that. What I'm not okay with is women carrying a potentially lethal weapon that can be discharged from a distance. Actually, I don't think anyone should be allowed to carry this kind of weapon, unless they go through all the same sorts of registration and training that a gun carrier goes around, as well as being subject to the same sorts of limitations. I'm not opposed to women carrying around mace, pepperspray, or the kind of taser that doesn't shoot out the electrical darts. I think that's a perfectly good idea, as too many women get raped, robbed, abused, et cetera on a daily basis.
But I am not okay with the idea of your typical college co-ed carrying one of these items around with her.
Consider for a moment your typical college co-ed on a typical American college campus. She probably doesn't really enjoy all of her classes but takes them and likes what she can like. She goes out on the weekends, to bars, to house parties, to concerts. She probably likes drinking. She also probably likes being drunk (all of this, of course, also goes for your typical male as well). She will probably at some point perceive herself to be the victim of "sexual harassament" in a social situation, such as someone grabbing her butt or making a lewd remark. This probably happens quite frequently, but there is also probably not a lot of damage done. Your typical college co-ed, if acting drunk and stupid, will probably defend themselves verbally, with a slap, or maybe even with the pepperspray if the offense is grave enough. What I don't want to see your typical co-ed doing is pulling out the taser and firing those little darts at some mostly unsuspecting (and quite possibly undeserving) male for a perceived slight. I myself was a victim of perceived sexual misconduct this weekend. I was at a bar on Friday night and a very loud and obnoxious drunk girl was in my way. I wasn't feeling so hot and having a case of the booze-and-hetero-filled-bar induced anxiety, so I was feeling a fairly urgent need to get out of the bar, lest I snap and have a panic attack or something along those lines. I was trying to push my way out of the bar around the pool table (as that was my only means of escape) when bam! Smack dab in the middle of the two feet of walking space I have to escape, some drunk girl appears and starts engaging in conversation with someone. I approached her and kindly asked her to excuse me (yes, I was drunk, but I still manage to have manners normally). She proceeded to ignore me. I asked her again, and tapped her this time on the shoulder. She still ignored me. I said it again a little louder, and still, more ignoring. I waited a good three minutes for her to move (there was still no way to get around her) before finally I put my hand on her ass and pushed her gently out of the way, saying loudly as I passed, "I'm sorry but excuse me."
Now, I wasn't in the best mood. I'd just been standing there feeling increasingly crappy with every passing moment, waiting for this inconsiderate ho to move out of the way, but does she think that far into the future, that someone might actually use a walk-way for its intended purpose- walking? No, of course not. My requests for her to move certainly fell on deaf ears, but my hands certainly got her attention. This was one hand, on her ass, pushing her out of the way. I couldn't get a hold of the small of her back, which would have been weird anyway, and pushing her by the shoulder probably would have tipped her over. So waht does the bitch do? She turns around, glares at me, makes that weird drunk-bitch snorting noise that's a cross between snorting out your nasal passages and the word "huh?" and then says, "You just grabbed my ass."
I was really beyond need to play games at this point, so I looked her straigh tin the face and said, "Honey, I sure as hell did. I grabbed your ass to get you to move out of the way because I'm trying to get out of here and you were ignoring me. Deal with it."
Apparently this isn't the response she expected, because the wheels start turning and she responds after an appropriate pause, "Well, you shouldn't go around grabbing girls asses."
I snorted at her, rolled my eyes and replied, "Listen, I didn't enjoy it, trust me. I'm gay, anyway, so your ass is really the last of my concerns. And maybe if you would actually pay attention to what's going on around you, people wouldn't have to grab your ass to get you to move out of the way."
She didn't like this answer at all, and so I had to then have a 5 minute argument with her about why I'm not a misogynist and why she is a dumb piece of trash.
Seriously. If you're in a crowded bar and you're being a bitch by taking up the aisle way, what do you expect?!
Now, this didn't end up very badly. I mean, I got a five minute lecture that was a total waste of time. My god, the end of the world.
But I can see this or a situation like it turning out very differently. I can see a drunk, feisty girl turning a taser on a guy she perceives to have slighted her. Mixing electricity and alcohol is never a good idea. What makes people think that this is a good idea now? How ever thought it was a good idea to put tasers in the hands of drunk college co-eds. Pepperspray, I'll give you that, okay. Fine. But tasers? And the shootable, projectile kind? This is a disaster waiting to happen. And let's not forget that under no circumstances could a man taser a women. Because let's face it. That would just be sexist, misogynistic sexual harassment, because it's not possible for a woman to sexual harass a man. Don't get me started on the double standard here.
My point? Buy pepperspray, but save my nervous system the trouble and don't buy a taser. It's going to save you a lot of trouble to keep me from suing your ass because you decided it was a good idea to create a traffic jam in a bar.

Peace and happy finals week.

The Words From Beyond

2007-11-28T17:05:00.000-08:00

So-o-o-my god! Some more things annoyed me, and made me want to write a blog. Surprise! Right? So, a short time ago (as in 5 minutes ago), the television was kind enough to play me an episode of Inside Edition.
I hate this show, for the record.
Also for the record, I only get two channels. The other is OPB. You do the math.
Now, I watch this show religiously because there's nothing else to do in my life save for surf
the internet, avoid homework and masturbate, so I was watching it and prostrating myself before the television as if praying towards Mecca, and the show ended. Now, of course, like every good gossip program, there were highlights/previews for the upcoming show, which will be featuring the words of Kanye West's dead mother (god rest her soul- I don't know what I'd do without my mother). But there is something that needs to be said about this. Let me give you some background. Apparently, before she went into the surgery, she left some voicemail with her hairdresser about needing to get work done. She wanted to be pretty for the anesthesia or something. But we all know that she either never woke up or, you know, whatever. So somehow, the media managed to get their hands on this answering machine tape (an aside: people still have answering machines?!) That's all well and good. I mean really, I had no idea that the media had become this all pervasive spectacle-generating machine that had its grubby paws in every conceivable location and situation. But what's wrong with total and complete invasion of privacy, right? All in the name of entertainment. Now, I'd be perfectly unopposed to hearing this tape on I.E.(and by that, I mean I would rather watch the one non-OPB channel in my room than go out and watch the public TV that has cable). But there was just one problem I have with this little show. They advertised it as being "The voice from beyond the grave!"
...really? I mean, really? Did we just call this recording "a voice from beyond the grave?"
No, this is a posthumous message, the last words before she died, the dire request of a women who sensed her own death!
I'll give you all of that, fine. But beyond the grave?
No, no no.
There are only two situations when I ever need to hear the phrase beyond the grave (that's not, you know, in a book by Poe or whatever). The first of those hopefully involves Vincent Price appearing as a disembodied head in the middle of my room (or, you know, at least on my TV set), and he had better be passing along useful tips about picking up boys, I mean, foreign langauges from my dead grandfather. The other situation is if someone is actually talking to me from beyond a grave, like, on the other side of a gravestone.

(PS - Is it ironic that a gay man [Neil Patrick Harris] playing a straight womanizer on television goes to his brother in the show who once was straight but turned out to be gay to get advice on women?)

The Thanxgiving Blog (Warning- NOT Funny)

2007-11-21T01:42:00.001-08:00

Happy Holidays, everyone. I mean, it's going to be Thanxgiving (and it shall be henceforth spelled forevermore as Thanxgiving, beccause why do we need a K and an S, especially in such a context, when we have X?). So I felt it's appropriate to write a blog about Thanxgiving. I am not a very big fan of Thanxgiving. I just think it's a crappy holiday and it makes people fat. I, personally, don't like holiday, because I always feel bloated after the eating and if I end up getting particularly drunk, I don't enjoy throwing all that food up. It's painful. This blog, by the way, is going to be a fairly politicized rant, so if you want to just get the good wishes, *good wishes be upon ye.*
Now, for the nitty-gritty.
I also want to say that I'm fairly liberal- four years ago I was technically a left centrist, but in the intervening years, I'm sure that's changed a bit. The reason I'm putting this caveat is this-
I am tired people attacking Thanxgiving as a holiday that glorifies genocide. The definition, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, is "an act of giving thanks; an expression of gratitude, especially to God." Now, to get technical, we celebrate Thanxgiving Day in the US to celebrate our successful harvest after arriving in the New World. We are force-fed in grade school a bunch of happy images about a bunch of friendly, feather-in-the-ear Natives coming to dinner and bringing things like corn and popping it (this image tormented me for what felt like ages [in hindsight it was probably a few days] and I have been compelled ever since to throw ears of corn on the fire and catch the popcorn that will inevitably come flying out). We're told that they "shared" foods and such with each other, and that we should share with each other and be good, blah blah blah (thank you, Oregon public education).

Now, why am I going to write a politicized blog defending Thanxgiving when it’s not under attack, right?

Well, you’d actually be quite wrong about that fact, because there is apparently lot to argue about Thanxgiving. I mean, not in my opinion (exactly) but in the opinion of a lot of people. Basically, there are a lot of people out there (well, there are a number of people out there) that equate celebrating Thanxgiving to celebrating genocide. Normally, I’d just sort of roll my eyes at these people (because they obviously don’t know the meaning of the word “genocide”) but after having to listen to one too many self-righteous Native Americans, Latinos and Hispanics complain that Columbus Day is also glorifying genocide, I just can’t take it anymore. I’m going to focus on Thanxgiving for this little rant (which won’t be particularly funny) but the same reasons will apply for Columbus Day as well.

The first thing that we need to establish is the definition of the word genocide. The American Heritage Dictionary defines it as “the systematic and planned extermination of an entire national, racial, political, or ethnic group.”

Normally I like glossing over my minutiae, but in as highly polemic a debate as I’m going to make, I think in this case I need to not do that. So, I won’t.

The extinction of the Native American cultures (because really, that’s what it was, extinction), all across the American supercontinent, was not genocide. It was, by definition, not genocide. Certainly it was horrendous, we can never deny that. But to call it genocide is degrading to those ethnic groups that have suffered genocidal assaults against them- Jews, Armenians, Soviet Slavs, Bosnians, the inhabitants of Darfur, the Tutsi of Rwanda, the list, sadly, goes on and on. But the Native American cultures of America were not victims to be added to this list. To quote Reverend Stafford Poole, "There are other terms to describe what happened in the Western Hemisphere, but genocide is not one of them. It is a good propaganda term in an age where slogans and shouting have replaced reflection and learning, but to use it in this context is to cheapen both the word itself and the appalling experiences of the Jews and Armenians, to mention but two of the major victims of this century."

The reason that the depopulation of the Americas was not genocide?

Not-so-generally speaking, most of the Native Americans did not die as a result of wars, fighting, slavery or even direct contact with Europeans. How did they die? Disease. Why?

Pretty simple. Europeans, Asians and Africans share a landmass that’s, well, huge. But despite this, diseases tend to sweep across it in waves. If you think of it like a pool, you can drop mud into one end of it, and while that one end gets exceptionally cloudy for a while, the dirt eventually spreads across all of it before settling out. That’s how diseases in Asia, Europe and much of Africa “worked.” It’s how diseases in any group of interconnected humans (i.e. everyone in the modern world) will work (just wait for the Bird Flu to get big and bad).

An aside: what does this mean? It means that a disease moves across a population as an epidemic before said population builds up heard immunity, after which point the disease has fairly little effect. This, for example, is why the Spanish Flu of the early 20th century was so devastating- no one had immunity to it, but once it had swept through and culled its victims, those left behind either a) had a natural resistance to the disease or b) had gained a resistance to it, so that “all” (i.e. that breeding majority) the survivors would pass it on to their children. Back to the rant…

Why were the Native Americans killed so brutally and quickly by these diseases? Well, again, the answer there is simple, if multilayered. Firstly, Native Americans had no exposure to these diseases, such as smallpox, typhus, whooping cough, influenza, and measles, which meant that they had no natural immunity to them. These diseases swept through the Natives because they had never been exposed to them at all, and so they died. Only those that, by the grace of Fate, had a natural immunity to them managed to survive. The complicating factor was that these diseases did not creep up one by one- they came all at once, so that they were weakened terribly- if the typhus didn’t kill you then the measles or the smallpox would. Each wave of disease (and there were many- the disease pool was full of interfering wave patterns at this time) washed over and around again, before the Native Americans managed to build up heard resistance to these diseases. And they didn’t wash over the entire supercontinent at once- it took 400 years. Native Americans can feel proud though, as they did give the Europeans one disease in return- syphilis, and a particularly virulent strain, too, that killed off thousands of Europeans thanks to horny Spaniards, Italians and Germans (I shit you not, look it up).

One of the biggest counterpoints to the argument of “it can’t have been genocide because the majority died of disease” is that, “well, Europeans spread those diseases on purpose.”

Okay, the first thing I’m going to say is that this indicates some knowledge of a germ theory of disease. Unfortunately, folks, the germ theory of disease wasn’t fully expostulated until approximately 1835 by an Italian, fully 300 years after the colonization of the Americas. Why does it indicate a germ theory of this disease? Well, at this point, modern medical science held that diseases came from bad air, not from germs or tiny invisible creatures (though such theories did already exist), and even if they did, it would take more medical knowledge than anyone on frontier possessed. Smallpox for example, one of the deadliest diseases to ravage the Natives, is generally passed via prolonged contact with the sick, and even then it is generally inhaled after viruses have been shed by someone in the rash phase. This was not known or understood at the time. Certainly, the colonists would have known that proximity to the ill would make others sick (hence the whole idea behind a leper colony), but even if we assume that the colonists were sadistic geniuses that were aware that they could spread smallpox in such a way, there is another problem entirely with this theory- distance in space and time.

To jump around a bit, the first English explorers and trappers, before the original colonies, did bring disease to the Native Americans of that time. Some of those trappers describe villages that had been utterly ravaged by disease. One claim by a trapper holds that the dead and dying were so horrific to survivors of the disease that they fled to neighboring villages, which in turn spread the viruses further. Amongst the Aztecs, centuries earlier, it was much the same.

Background story of smallpox amongst the Aztecs: Two groups of Spaniards had arrived around 1519, one group carrying a slave with smallpox. One of Hernan Cortes’ (everyone’s favorite Spanish conquistador) men contracted smallpox from this man, and when the Aztecs later revolted against Cortes’ rule, the man was killed in battle and left when the Spaniards had to retreat. From this body, the Aztecs contracted smallpox. It was so virulent that in the intervening year before Cortes returned to Tenochitlan, the disease destroyed the army so that Cortes faced almost no resistance upon return. It killed approximately 25% of the overall population. A Spanish priest described the smallpox epidemic as such: “As the Indians did not know the remedy of the disease…they died in heaps, like bedbugs. In many places it happened that everyone in a house died and, as it was impossible to bury the great number of dead, they pulled down the houses over them so that their homes become their tombs.”

Now, there are also a lot of people go out and argue about the “smallpox blanket” story. I did a bit of digging (okay, on Wikipedia, but fuck you, I’m not going to go write a research paper just to qualify blog material- if I can’t Google it or Wiki it, I don’t use it as “evidence”) and found that, while there was indeed a plan to use smallpox blankets to cause disease intentionally amongst Native Americans, the most well known story (I only found reference to such a tactic once, actually, and you can find references hereand here) takes place in the late 1700s during the French and Indian War in the Great Lakes region. This was during Pontiac’s Rebellion, and happened at and/or near an English fort, Fort Pitt. It may never have actually happened (i.e. the plan may never have actually been carried out) and again, even if the plan had been carried out, it is extremely unlikely that it would have been effective for two reasons- it is not that easy to spread smallpox, and there was already smallpox in this region. Why was there smallpox there? Native American warriors brought the disease back after attacking European settlements. It is not a viable argument that smallpox was spread massively as a weapon- there was simply too much time and distance between the original European settlements for them to spread, on purpose, smallpox across the entire continent.

Now, smallpox did not spread from north to south and east to west in one fell swoop. As Europeans came into contact with more and more Native peoples, new waves of it spread through the different subgroups. But again, just like dropping food-coloring into water, once it’s in there, is spread well ahead of the original point of entry.

Now I’m not going to sit there and justify this. It’s not “okay,” it’s not “all right,” it’s not “good,” or even “bad.” It’s terrible. Millions of people died, entire cultures, belief systems, ways of life, all of them vanished into the past leaving less of a trace than the dinosaurs. There is so much that we will never ever know and that can never be rediscovered.

But again, I return to the question- is this genocide? No.

Genocide is the systematic extermination of a people, a way of life, an ethnicity, whatever it may be. Many of these peoples went extinct before they even knew that Europeans had come to America. The Incas were nearly annihilated because refugees fleeing the Spanish conquerors in Central America brought these diseases to them, where they spread like wildfire thanks to the Incan system of roads, before any Europeans had ever had contact with them. The Incans had time for a civil war between when the first smallpox plague killed off their nobles and the arrival of the Spaniards.

Now, one could argue that the Spanirads themselves were engaged in genocide. After all, they came with every intention of “wiping out” native culture, right?

Well, no, not exactly.

During the 16^th century, there was much discourse on the nature of the human rights that had to be accorded to Native Americans. Did they have souls or were they just articulate animals? Did they deserve basic human rights if they were human?

Eventually, the idea that all colonized peoples deserved human rights won out (because of the work of a bunch of Jesuits and priests and stuff, and this thing called the School of Salamanca). The ideals behind the School of Salamanca established the rules for a just war (alright, not such a good idea, but give them credit, it was the 16^th century) but also limited the powers of the king and his ability to abuse Natives.

What’s the point of this, you say?

The Spaniards were not conquering the Natives to eradicate them. They wanted to use the land and resources for themselves, and if the Natives assimilated into Western Society, great. There was nothing wrong with the Native Americans themselves (indeed, in parts of Latin America, they did end up forming a cohesive middle class). They were expected to Christianize, but no one was going to march them into the sea, no one was going to put them into camps, no one was going to destroy them. It was entirely possible that they were going to be enslaved, but the Europeans were enslaving everyone- even themselves at that point. Again, that doesn’t make it right, but I’m making a point. The case was more or less the same with the French and English, and the Americans after them.

Now, to be clear, there were incidents of massacres that, on a larger scale, could definitely be considered genocide.
These occurred in the western United States, and could be argued to have occurred in the central United States as well (the Trail of Tears, anyone?). The massacre of Tippecanoe(anyone know what that is?) or at Wounded Knee were definitely acts that were tantamount to genocide. The Trail of Tears was definitely an act of democide, but the death of so many Cherokees along the way was not so much a means to an end (the eradication of a race of people) but was simply the terrible consequence of a terrible idea- the "relocation" of a group of people to legitimize the theft of their land. The Americans wanted not the eradication of the Native Americans for some irreparable and irredeemable flaw, but rather they wanted to integrate them into mainstream American society. This, of course, is a flawed ideal- you can’t forcibly integrate anyone into American society. Hell, it scarcely happens naturally, if our country is any indication. But the point is that they were not being forcibly destroyed as people. They were being changed, yes, but they were not being destroyed.

“Of yes they were too being destroyed!” a lot of people will argue.

No. Wrong.

Thisis what genocide looks like. And this.And this.

Genocide is the Holocaust, the Bosnian Massacres, the 100 Day Massacre of between 500,000 and one million Tutsis and their sympathizers in Rwanda. Genocide is the systematic rounding up and murder, flat out murder, of an entire ethnic group. You cannot escape genocide by converting your language or religion or submission. You cannot redeem yourself. If you are the victim of genocide, you cannot change it. The only escape from genocide is death. Your death is a deliberate death, based on your creed, your birthplace, your ethnicity. The Aztecs died not because they were Aztecs- they died because they were against the Spanish. The Incas died for the same reason. Just about all the Native Americans passed in that same way, succumbing to disease, or a small number in war. They were not rounded up and put into camps to be murdered. I admit that it is despicable that Native Americans of the United States were put onto reservations, but they were not put on the reservations to die. They were given the reservations in a pathetic attempt at exchange for everything that was stolen from them. A pathetic attempt, yes, but an attempt none the less. Is it justified? Well, not by our current moral standards. But then again, which is worse?

Native American culture was nearly wiped out and certainly terribly harmed by the coming of Europeans. But genocide? Genocide it’s not.

Let’s not forget that that Natives themselves were not immune from committing genocide. Flower wars, anyone? The Aztecs sacrificed entire tribes of people as tribute to their gods in a ritual display to their gods to keep the sun rising. Tens of thousands of people were sacrificed by the Aztec priests, entire tribes wiped out to feed their need for human sacrifices. Is that just? No. No more just than the terror visited upon the Aztecs by Europeans. But let’s just sweep that under the rug for convenience, shall we?

And in any event, we also have to remember that the concept of “genocide” is a modern one, just like “homosexuality” as we know it, or democracy, or slavery, or even the concept of citizenship in the modern nation-state. We can’t judge too harshly what was done by our ancestors because they just didn’t know. Most would agree that we currently, in “the West,” live in an enlightened society. I will not say that everyone is enlightened, but that everyone at least has access to the ideals and principles of enlightenment. In Western Europe, North America and much of South America, in Japan, in China, in Australia and New Zealand, the average citizen has at least the capacity to expose themselves to those ideas- what equality, freedom, etc. truly mean. One hundred years ago, many of these ideas did not even exist. We cannot judge our ancestors, any of them, as harshly as we judge the perpetrators of the Holocaust, the Rwanda and Bosnian Genocides, the massacres of the Slavs under Stalin. Our ancestors, centuries ago, simply had not visualized these concepts yet, and thus to judge them harshly is unjust. By the same token, that’s like saying that aliens that have never have the Word of Christ, nor have they any means to be exposed to it, are all going to Hell. I’m not a Christian by any stretch of the imagination, but to judge those people against standards that did not exist for them is just the same.

These were people still acting essentially as male-dominated mostly-animal tribal units. They were thinking first to find food and shelter, and secondly to find women and secure rights for their offspring. I mean, I know there’s a bunch of steps in there between the simplicity of “secure food, water, shelter, mates,” and “conquer the weaklings for the king!” but the point is the same. Stronger, more powerful animals have been victimizing the weaker ones since the beginning of time. That’s how life works.

That is the principle of evolution- those that are best suited to the environment will out-compete the less suited individuals (which often translates to the “weaker” ones) for food and mates and breeding space, and the weaker ones go extinct. That’s how we climbed to the top of the food chain as species. It is not to say that there was anything inherently bad or wrong with the Native Americans, but they, for whatever reason, had simply not adapted as well to their environment or progressed in the direction that would allow them to breed and overcome competitors, those competitors being European. Who can say why they never invented steel or gunpowder or lead-shot or put it all together into a gun? Who can say why they never invented huge, ocean going vessels? Is there any reason to say? They certainly weren’t stupid- they had a calendar and mathematical system that was light years ahead of the Europeans, as well as equally if not far more efficient irrigation systems. There is no real reason to be pinned down in these reasonings, but for whatever reason, their societies did not evolve as quickly or in a direction conducive to the developments that would let them conquer the world. Perhaps had life gone differently, but who can say? It didn’t. Humanity at this stage of development was simply the most perfectly adapted predator in the whole of the world’s ecosystem- and some were more perfectly adapted than others.
But now we can finally start saying we are not animals. Now, some of us are more or less enlightened, and we can recognize wrongs that we do know of, but we shouldn’t fault ourselves for what has come to pass. We must remember and resolve never to do it again, but can we fault ourselves? Has any one of my readers gone out and scalped a white-man for wampum or infected a tribe of Injuns with smallpox to get ‘em off yer land? No, so stop feeling guilty about it. Just remember that those crimes must not be repeated- we’ve got to understand why they happened, and then figure out how to avoid them in the future. Guilt serves no purpose. A drive to learn from the terrors and horrors of our past as animals is what matters, not guilt.

What’s my point in all of this, in coming out and making these inflammatory statements?

My point is simple. Stop saying that Thanxgiving represents a holiday of murder or genocide or slaughter. It doesn’t. Thanxgiving has taken on a life of its own, just like everything else does after a while. Remember the crimes, but don’t feel guilty- for guilt serves no purpose. Resolve to make the future a better place, resolve not to be an animal. Don’t resolve to go out and enlighten everyone on the pain that can’t be fixed and has come and gone long ago. Resolve to make people want to be better, reasonable, enlightened humans for a better, glorious, diverse, accepting, loving tomorrow.

Stop pointing fingers because someone’s distant ancestor killed someone else’s- because at this point, chances are your ancestors are just as bloody as everyone else’s.

Resolve to go out and eat some god-damn turkey and stuffing and stop complaining. Because I’m tired of it.

Ex pacem

PS – what right have I to be tired of all these anti-Thanxgiving rants?

Because my ancestors didn’t live in this country four generations ago. So leave me out of all your Native murder talk. I’m a third generation American and so I can get on a high horse and talk at you because my ancestors didn’t do crap to yours. We were busy being land holders or something, busy victimizing serfs and peasants in Eastern Europe, thank you.

Lots of love and turkey and stuffing and scalloped (not mashed) potatoes to everyone.

The Amendment to the Change of the World

2007-11-13T21:44:00.000-08:00

The Amendment to the Change of the World
Current mood: annoyed
Category: annoyed Goals, Plans, Hopes

So, it appears that not everyone understood what I was trying to say in the last blog I wrote. I was not trying to say that blogging is useless. It is most certainly not. The points I was trying to make are these:

a) blogging does not change the world, so if you are concerned about trying to change the world, actually do something about it

b) but it is very useful when it comes to both entertainment and being informative. Blogs are informative.

But do not complain in a blog that the world needs to be changed if you are not going out and working to change it. I am not pointing any fingers, because I am not really doing anything myself to fixing things. I am saying, firstly, do not put words in my mouth. To quote myself, "Blogs serve two purposes in the practical scheme of things- they entertain and they increase awareness," and "[Blogs are] a good place to vent, [they're] a good place to inform people about something, [they're] a good place to try to entertain 'the masses'," because that is what they are. They are great for informing. But I would doubt that the average person goes surfing to read about what are, for them, inflammatory opinions in an attempt to change their own opinions.

And also, please note that I believe the Internet itself can be a very useful way to make changes in the world. But don't park yourself behind a computer writing blogs hoping to change the world- if you provide some exposure to an issue, wonderful. But you're not going to reverse the genocide of Darfur, you're not going to cure AIDS, you're not going to solve global warming by writing blogs (believe me, I've tried). You're not even going to feed one homeless person in your community (unless, of course, you have ads linked to your site and when people click on them, the profits from that go into an account for local charities. Then fine, you've got me).

What can you do to make a difference? Go get an education, or if that is not a viable option (because for a lot of people it's not) sign up for the military (yes, the military…well, okay, maybe I take that one back) or the Peace Corps or Teach for America, or volunteer for one hour a week at a local charity. You want to fix the world? There are (probably literally) millions of better things to do to change the world than writing blogs. Hell, even donating blood or one can of food will, in all likely hood, do more good than writing five hundred blogs (I've written 500, and let me tell you, in the four years it's taken me to do that, I feel much more gratified knowing that I've given even what tiny bits I have to the Salvation Army, the homeless, the different charities, probably totaling $100; yes, I know I'm a pathetic, affluent white male from suburbia- sue me for it). I do recognize that theoretically, someone with the means (i.e. the money and connections) and too much time on their hands may, one day, or already has, gotten an idea from a blog and made it their sudden pet project. In theory, at least, this will occur (but I won't get into the theory), but in the grand scheme of things, that one case is an exception, an "outlier," and when dealing with society as a whole, outliers and exceptions are of no real use. For an outlier to make any "real" impact (And even then, it will be by definition, little more than exposure), that outlier needs to be someone like Angelina Jolie. Has she fixed all of the problems in Africa? No. She certainly has helped a few children (but I think even then, the definition of "help" is up for debate). What has she done that will have the most impact? She has brought a great deal of exposure to the conflicts and situations going on there. Which, really, is doing little more good than if she were the author of a widely read blog. She exposes people to things, she informs them, but that's about it. She's not going out and changing things. She's laying the seeds, but you can't spend all your time laying seeds and not reaping the harvest (I won't lie- Angeline Jolie is doing a lot of work, but again, she's not getting wheels moving with the common people, and that's where the wheels need to move. Until she get's the Nobel Peace Prize, I'm not going to give her any major kudos that I wouldn't give to a good expose writter or journalist).
This is going to get me up on a soapbox about hypocrisy in a few short steps, so I'm going to leave it be.

To summarize: blogs don't change the world; they entertain and expose. Going out and working in your community does. Get your ideas and information from wherever you may wish, but don't spend all your time in front of a computer pretending to save the earth. You're not.

The Lab-Techs Aren’t Your Friend, but Apparently Mental-Math IS

2007-11-13T17:32:00.000-08:00

The Lab-Techs Aren’t Your Friend, but Apparently Mental-Math IS
Current mood: frustrated
Category: frustrated Life

Okay, seriously. I don't need sas from a fat lab tech [that's a computer lab assistant for you laymen out there]. If I ask you a question about how much it costs to print a page, and then I ask you for a calculator, THIS is the response I'm expecting from you-
Me: how much does it cost to print one page?
Fat Lab Tech: eight cents a page
Me: do you have a calculator?
FLT: yes/no.

That is all I need. I do NOT under ANY circumstances need to have the following conversation.

Me: how much does it cost to print one page?
FLT: 8 cents for either one-sided or double-sided black and white, 50 cents for color. Why?
Me: um...I need to print something. Do you happen to have a calculator?
FLT: Why?
Me: I...need to print a very large document and I need to know how much it will cost me. Do you have a calculator?
FLT: How big is it?
Me: Large. Do you have one?
FLT: Well...no...I can pull one up on the computer, but how big is it?
- at this point I nearly slapped the bitch like she owed me money, but I didn't- because I'm a fucking gentleman. So I decided to humor the cow. And her stupid fake French beret (I shit you not, she was wearing a beret).
Me: *sigh* It's about 240 pages.
FLT: *look of shock and confusion*
Me: Look, I know I need to divide it up so I won't monopolize the printers. How much will that cost?
FLT: Oh, well, that shouldn't be too hard. Just multiple 2.4 by 8.
Me: *Long silence* Are you sure you don't have a calculator?
FLT: Oh yes. See, that would be, like, 19$. So it will cost you 19$.
Me: *frustrated noise* Well I'll be getting it double sided, in which case I only need half that, but thanks for the "help."
FLT: [before I can escape her dirty, faux-French-math-loving clutches] Oh, then you just have to multiply .8 by 1.2. So that's like $9.50. See? Mental math is your friend!
Me: um...yeah. Thanks.

OH MY GOD REALLY? MENTAL MATH IS MY FRIEND? I HAD NO FUCKING CLUE! BECAUSE I DON'T USE IT EVERY TIME I GO TO THE STORE TO FIGURE OUT HOW MUCH MONEY MY SAFEWAY CARD SAVES ME, NOR DO I EVER USE IT TO FIGURE OUT HOW MUCH TIP AT A RESTAURANT IS. ME? MENTAL MATH?! NEVER!

Seriously, if I wanted to do mental math, why would I have asked for a calculator? I don't care if she thinks I'm lazy or incapable or what. But I don't need a lecture about multiplying decimals to figure out how much it will cost me to print out my novel. I really don't.
The saddest part about this whole thing is that this conversation actually happened. But the good part is how it ended.

FLT: Is that everything? Can I help you with something else?
Me: Um, you can help me by shutting the fuck up about mental math and getting your ass on a treadmill you cow. And lose the hat, yesterday- you're too fat and ugly to be French.

Okay, so that's not how it ended. I basically just rolled my eyes and walked away. I wouldn't say that to someone's face unless they really deserved it because, like I said, "I'm a fucking gentleman." But seriously. Bitches need to learn some respect, yo.

And to SHUT UP about mental math. God.

The Wicker Man Review

2007-11-13T17:31:00.000-08:00

The Wicker Man Movie Review
Current mood: ugh!
Category: ugh! Movies, TV, Celebrities

So, it isn't very often that I write a piece about movies, art, music, or what not. But this time, I just felt I had to.
I just finished watching the movie Wicker Man, the 2006 remake with *gag* Nicholas Cage (just the sight of Nicholas Cage makes me vomit in my mouth). I sat down to watch this little number because I thought it would be interesting, and it has an actress in it that I happen to like (Ellen Burstyn). So despite the fact that it would mean scarring my retinae for about an hour and a half with Nicholas Cage, I decided to dabble in this movie anyway. Right?

BIG mistake. Like almost as big a mistake as going out with someone who used to abuse ecstasy. Nicholas Cage and ecstasy abuse are generally two warning signs that something is going to blow.

This movie was terrible. And I blame it all on Nicholas Cage. Okay, well, almost all. Seriously. This guy just can't act. I have never seen a movie with him that has been good. Ever. Ever. In this particular film, Nicholas Cage blew balls mainly because everyone else in the movie was poised. Now, I can understand why, in the context of the film, everyone was always poised, but it was...well, it's hard to explain it exactly, but they were actors, acting well, and living the roles they were in. But Nicholas Cage? Nicholas Cage prances around like some dumb fuck bull-in-a-china store. I understand that you're trying to act desperate because you're trapped on an island with some whack-job cult of females, but still, come on, if you're going to go talk to a woman about photographs, do you actually need to slap her around and shout at her? Albeit, I understand that this is something that's directed of him, but he does everything so over the top that it becomes totally unbelievable. You don't even know the girl is your daughter yet! You don't know anything! You've just arrived on this island and as far as you know, nothing is amiss! I, as the viewer and dutiful Wikipedia surfer that I am, know that you are going to get sacrificed, but you, ass hat, don't know anything. At all. You can't be panicked. You just...you know, can't. It doesn't make sense. And then once he does get panicked, he doesn't act actually panicked. He looks like a guy that woke up one day and realized "shit, I'm an actor and I have no idea how to act"...and he also happened to wake up on a movie set...without a script. Which, incidentally, is exactly what happened, and exactly how Mr. Cage became an actor. He is quite possibly the worst actor ever. Talk about over acting a part. When you act, you have to try to emulate the emotions you're acting- "living the part." You don't emulate an actor emulating an emotion. What the hell? How does one decide that, now that you're an actor (which apparently was an accident), you're going to pretend that you're an actor in order to be a good actor?! How did that happen?! What thought process would produce that conclusion?
Ugh. This man ruined the movie, what could have been a great movie.

And the fact that it sort of demonizes Celtic religion. That was mean.

Seriously. Zero kudos. Actually, like -72 kudos.

The Commentary on Making Friends with Gays

2007-11-13T17:29:00.000-08:00

The Oddest Connection...and Commentary on Making Friends with Gay Males
Current mood: disdainful
Category: disdainful Life

I have just made a surprising connection- when I write more blogs, more people read my blog! Oh my GOD! I had NO idea!
Seriously, I was a little surprised. About 30some people read (or at least open) my blog each day. God knows why, but apparently I am interesting enough (or a good enough conman) to attract approximately 27 people to my little personal rant-space (because really, that's all MySpace is- rant-space). When I don't write for weeks on end, my readership drops to approximately 3 readers a day. Maybe. But I'm already at 31 readers today, with a whopping 1 hour to go! Yay for me!

I was just thinking about the weekend I had (what I remember of it, anyway) and thinking about some of the people I talked to during the course of it. I was reading Friendly HOSTILITY (as usual, like the compulsive maniac I am) when I came across this little gem of a comic- I've included it right in the blog for ease of reading, so you don't have to bother clicking on a link to go see it (please don't sue me Ms. K. S. Fuhr).

Why have I included this, you may ask? I mean, it's been years since I came out of the closet and even then the realization didn't come upon me all of a sudden despite having dated a man for years (it came to me in the shower in May after reading a book, just for the record).
The reason I'm including the comic is this:
As a homosexual male grown-up-in-training, I am tired of being confronted by people, most often women, that assume because I am homosexual I enjoy shopping and that I can give opinions on clothes with impunity, that I want to be every woman's best friend the minute she finds out I'm gay, that I'm lovable, etc.
Fellow homos, we've all been here. And how long did it take you to get tired of it?
Look, for me at least, I'd like to clear up a few misconceptions that I think may be widely held about me.

Firstly- I am one of those people that knows a lot of people, but has only a few good friends. I like it that way. The auditions for possible spots in my "bestest friends" line-up closed a long time ago (well, okay. Like, in January). There are so many ignorant women out there that think "oh my god I'm meeting an actual homosexual for the first time! He is SO going to want to be my new BFF!" (yes, this is how they actually think, worded exactly like that, BFF and cap-locks included).

Ladies, please.

This is the next most grievous thing you can do after hitting on me (although that one can be flattering as well...kind of depends on the chick...which is beside the point). You must realize when you ask me to hang out and declare your intentions of making me your BFF (which has happened, many times) that I have heard this uncountably often, and that I will hear this again. The vast majority of homosexual men that associate more than infrequently with women know this. But what most of you women don't realize when you start badgering us with these sorts of statements is that, chances are, we already have best girlfriends. We generally have more than one. We generally have more than three, if you can believe it. And while sure, what the hell, I'll go so far as to say that "one can never have too many friends," it becomes impossible after about 5±2 best girl friends to actually maintain a social life. After that point, there are simply too many girls to maintain contacts with, and you end up having no life of your own and unable to communicate with any of them because you're trying to run around keeping track of all of them. You are for no reason an inferior person because I have too many girl friends. I just have too many girlfriends to include you, and you need to find your own good gay friend. Chances are, if a good girl friend of yours introduces you to her good gay friend, you probably won't make much of a fit with him. Friendships are like plants, and that means they grow and change in an organic fashion. Just because you declare your intention of befriending us doesn't mean that we're actually going to follow through. Again, nothing (normally) against you, it's just that we've got all we can handle on our plate.
And let's face it. There are a lot more heterosexual women in the world than there are gay men (I mean, Iran doesn't even have gay men, right?). Numbers are working against you, ladies. That's why gay men everywhere are giving so much of themselves to so many women, working overtime to maintain all those vital friendships- there's a huge demand to fill, because for everyone one of us there are literally between 8 and 18 of you (and I'm even factoring out lesbians).
Okay, so that's a bit presumptuous, but you see my point.
And if you don't, I'll spell this first point out for you- just because you want to be my friend does not obligate me to actually follow through and befriend you, especially when I've already got an entourage of girlfriends behind me (girlfriends that I love dearly, of course).
That being said, there are some things you can do to work up in our/my favor. Actually, all you really need to do is compliment your average gay man and he likes you already (go for the hair, skin tone or complexion- that's your best bet, ladies).
What I really need to say, though, and to get back to the main thread of this discourse (which is actually becoming quite lengthy) is that there are a few key phrases that should be avoided at all costs.

Having declared your intention to make me your gay husband (which is often off-putting enough), please do not follow this phrase up with, "I've never had a [real] gay friend before!"
You would be surprised how often the adjective "real" gets thrown into that exact phrase.
Real gay friend?
Wait, wait, "Real gay friend?"
There are fake gays crawling around? Where? What do you mean by saying "real?" Do you mean out of the closet? Do you mean non-bisexual? Stop saying "real" and pick a new adjective, because closeted homos are real homos (trust me, it just takes a bit of time to find the right key for the door) and bisexual men aren't gay (or they're lying and are gay, but don't want to admit it- there are actually a lot more fake bisexuals than fake gays).
Stop saying this phrase. Just stop saying it. It's not that anything about it (with or without the "real") is particularly offensive, it's the overall tone of the message that is bothersome. It implies that we are somehow novel and new and different and special. We're not. We've still got hearts and eyes and brains (well, okay, that's up for debate) and lungs and feet and arms and penises and butt holes, just like you (well, without the penis). And we have more or less the same mental processes as all other humans (I think, anyway...). We have "always" been around, since the beginning of time. Even elephants can be gay! We didn't just suddenly appear because you've met one of us, we didn't all suddenly just come out of the closet last week because a particularly good episode of Oprah moved all of us to stand up and speak out. We've been doing this for years now, and when you use that tone of surprise and shock at how happy you are to finally meet one of us, it just makes you look backward and ignorant. It's one thing to say "I've never met a gay person before." Lots of people haven't. But when you say "I've never had a gay friend before!" it sounds like you think of us as nothing more than a bundle of stereotypes in a pretty little package, all tied off with a rainbow ribbon.
And we're not. Sure, stereotypes exist for a reason, but few gay men have every single one. It's also denigrating because you could drop any noun after "had a" and the sentence still makes sense. You could just as easily say "I've never had a Gucci bag, a pair of Prada shoes, an orgasm and a gay friend before!" like we're things to be bought, sold and collected (which, despite certain subcultures and sexual practices that may not be entirely legal, we're not). We are people, too, and when you say "I've never had a gay friend before!" and you say it with that tone and that look on your face, you're saying "I'm not actually interested in knowing anything about you- I'm only interested in that you're gay."
I know you're doing it with the best of intentions, but for all you know I could be a child-molester and murderer (which, of course, I'm not). Yet, because I'm gay and you happen to believe the stereotypes that I like shopping and will give you wardrobe advice, that makes it okay!
In case you missed the morality memo- It's not okay! It's just as bad to treat us that way as it is to dislike us because we're gay. Sure, it's "positive discrimination" (and I do think it's worse to dislike someone because they're gay) in that you're not really hurting us directly, but you know what? At the very least it's annoying, and at worst it's offensive because it's dehumanizing, telling us that you see us as nothing more than a bundle of stereotypes, that our actual selves are of no real value.
It needs to be said that being gay doesn't make me nice and polite and pretty and refined, either. I am not Jay from America's Next Top Model. Sure, some gay men are, but I'm not. I am dirty and stinky and clumsy and uncouth and rough around the edges most of the time. There are lots of days that I stink and feel fat and can scarcely form a sentence, and somehow, this doesn't keep me from leaving the house (though, I guess, it really should. Whatever). It's just the way I am. I like being like that. Sure, I can clean myself up if I have to, but in general I enjoy just being like this. I will leave the house in sweat pants, and I will leave the house wearing black and navy blue at the same time (but not in front of the Katelyns). I am not nice, either. I am a bitch and an elitist with too much time on his hands and no real grounds for being an elitist, as nothing about me is particularly special. It's just fun to piss other people off sometimes and break social taboos. I do think I can be fairly likable to the right kind of person, but those that find me likable are best (and most nicely) described as a niche market. If I don't know you, chances are I am more likely to tear you apart verbally and string you up by the tatters of your own self-esteem than I am to be nice to you. I am not nice. I have two modes for use in public viewing- scathing and silent. Silent is the most common one that comes out of my mouth (er...or that doesn't come out of my mouth, I guess). If you don't know me and you see my mouth working, put your shields up and ready your photon torpedoes because chances are you're about to receive a lethal blast of scathing sarcasm and crippling disdain. Don't fool yourself into thinking that being gay makes me a) likable and b) likable to you. Nor does it mean that I value all women and want to be friends with them all. Women, actually, are quite catty and bitchy (newsflash, right?) and I would much rather hang out with men, if only I could get past the fact that the majority of them think with their dick so completely that they don't realize their dick would be much happier if they thought with their brains (because, to spell it out, thinking with the Big Head attracts a lot more women than getting drunk and hitting on them does. Or roofying them). But considering I can't, I will stick with generally hanging out with women more than men. Just don't make the foolish assumption that I like you automatically because you're a woman and I'm gay.

And while I'm talking about how stupid men can be, I have a newsflash to all heterosexual men out there that may, on the off-chance, be reading this (or to any girlfriends of straight men with this fear- feel free to pass on this little piece of news and the arguments that go along with it):

I am gay. I am not going to steal your girlfriend.

Why gay men need to continually address this topic of supposed girlfriend theft is almost beyond me, but then I remember that men are idiots and so I stop asking questions.
Gentlemen, I am not going to steal your girlfriend. You assume two things when you tell me (or your girlfriends parrot to me) that you are uncomfortable with her and my friendship because you fear I will take her. Firstly, you are assuming incorrectly that I am attracted to women. I am not. I mean, on no meaningful level that might lead me to stealing your girlfriend. Gay men are not simply confused straight guys that haven't found "the right girl." Gay men are not just picking their sexuality because it's "fun" or "different" or "cool," because really, why would we do that? God knows I'd totally sign up for a club where you run a greatly increased risk of exposure to HIV and other STDs, where you may suffer physical harm and/or death for being part of the club, where you are denounced by nearly every major religion and your chances of actually finding your mate are reduced by approximately one order of magnitude. Yes, sounds like just the club for me!
Fucktards. We are not going to steal your girlfriend because we are, in one way or another, attracted to her. We simply aren't. If we are bisexual, perhaps, but if a person is gay, they are attracted to the cock just as you are attracted to the pussy. Being bisexual is a horse of another color entirely. By your logic, it's entirely possible that you've only got your girlfriend because you haven't found the right boy yet that knows just how you like it and where to stick those fingers to make you squeal. Ten dollars says I just made you feel uncomfortable for having written that, but that's what your logic suggests when you harbor the baseless fear that we're going to steal your girlfriend. And just so you know, guys that pretend to be gay to meet women, despite what you may have seen on TV, don't appear to exist (in my experience, anyway). I could be wrong but I've never met a straight man that was good enough at acting gay that he could fool a woman. It's one thing to give off a gay vibe and still be straight, which happens all the time, but no man (again, that I have ever met, ever) is a good enough actor to actually pull of the fake-gay routine just so that he can meet women. It's just not possible, as far as I'm concerned. If someone can give me concrete proof to the contrary, I will give you a dollar. Back to the main idea though-
And the other thing that the girlfriend-stealing fear assumes?
You flatter yourself and your girlfriend when you assume we can't do better. And I mean in the looks/personality category. I was actually confronted by a straight acquaintance about this a few years back when I first got into college. He told me he was uncomfortable with the idea of his girlfriend having gay friends because he was afraid she would get "stolen." His girlfriend was ugly and a heinous bitch, and he was an idiot that deserved my condescension, so I flat out told him- "you're assuming, of course, that you're girlfriend is pretty enough to steal...so really, I wouldn't worry about it in any event."
As an aside, he wasn't very pleased with this response, but he was about 5'6" and I'm about 6'2" so he didn't really do anything but make vague threats about slipping weight-gain powder in my food (which, considering the time period, he may actually have gone through with...bastard!).
But really. Gay men often know a lot of women. A lot a lot of them. And statistically speaking, some of them will be very attractive. Also statistically speaking, some will probably be prettier than your girlfriend, and a few will be much prettier. So stop worrying. (I am aware of the logical fallacy in this argument, but it holds to a point- I'm going to exclude any outliers in the prettiness scale).

The next topics I want to address are a bit more mundane. And by mundane, I guess I really don't mean mundane at all. I mean superficial and pointless.

I like shopping. But you know what? I like shopping for me. Save for a very small handful of exceptions, if I want you to go shopping with me, it's because I want you to tell me that I look pretty and to follow me around. I have no desire to go into a shoe department or to look at anything that I can't or won't buy. Ever. I am that selfish. At best, if you're not one of my few exceptions, I am only good for making sarcastic and/or witty comments while people-watching and providing interesting chat over lunch between bouts of shopping. Otherwise, I don't want you with me. I want to shop and I don't want to be distracted because you need to know if a certain belt is too fat or a bag looks good with your hair.
Because you know what? (This is my last point, I promise) I can't give you fashion advice, unless I've been growing with your style for ages and ages. If we've met for the first time in the past calendar year, I am probably useless to you (So essentially, Alysha, Melissa, Brenna, Kelly, Deborah, Alexa, The Katelyns and the Saras are included in this. And Rhiannon gets an inclusion because of the sheer volume of time I've spent with her). I do not want to advise you on if your hair and eyeshadow coordinates or if the skinny-jean look fits with you or if you should have gone with a little black jacket and a cute skirt or whatever (and honestly, I generally get a mental wardrobe block if the first thing on my "parts of the wardrobe to change" list for you is "get new Face and Body"- this is why I have so much trouble dressing). Just stop asking. If I didn't put your name in this list, stop asking. I don't want to help you, because I'd probably just end up dressing you like one of my girlfriends and so neither of us would be happy. I can try, sure, but be forewarned- it will annoy me and it probably won't be much help. I'd love to be passionate about what you're wearing, but chances are I don't give a crap. Just because I am gay does not mean I can help you with dressing. Go read Vogue, for shit's sake! That's why you have it! Is it so hard to look at the pictures, pick out a style or an outfit, then go to Forever 21 and get the dirt cheap fashion that will look almost exactly the same as that Versace ensemble you saw? You can even take the picture with you so you can hunt around playing matching games. Seriously. Stop asking me. I'm not on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (and don't get me started on what a pathetic farce the concept behind QEftSG is) and I'm probably too busy helping my current friends to stay pretty so that I can stand to be seen with them.

How does this connect to the comic (aside from the fact that they're almost equally awesome) anyway, you ask?
All this is judgment and supposition. Just because I'm gay doesn't make me nice and it doesn't obligate me to suddenly make you my best friend. Nor does it obligate me to give you a make over and take you shopping- it doesn't even mean I like those things! I like shopping because it's the only thing in my life that has any meaning to me (well, shopping and ranting via my blog) and I am not really able to dress people. I'm like the Nicholas Cage of fashion advice, just emulating the thoughts of a fashion adviser. I'm not actually one. I'm pretending to be one. And not well at that.
I am well aware that I will continue to be judged by gay stereotypes. We all are judged by stereotypes- blacks, gays, Jews, Muslims, women, men, children, the elderly- we all get labeled and judged according to whichever group we are by everyone that's not part of that group. And you know what? That's okay. I'm okay with that because you can't prevent that.
But what I'm not okay with is being annoyed to no end by invasive women who think, in their ignorance, that just because I'm gay, I am going to become their new BFF and totally change the ways they dress and shop, and by their boyfriends who are afraid that I'm going to steal their girlfriend. Because you know what? On not going to, on either count. It's just not going to happen. So do the world a favor (e.g. do me a favor) and either learn from this little lesson or forget to breathe sometime soon. Thank you in advance.

The Change in the World

2007-11-13T17:25:00.000-08:00

The Change in the World
Current mood: violently ill
Category: violently ill Goals, Plans, Hopes

This blog may seem a bit ironic, as I'm going to criticize bloggers and MySpace bulletin posters. That being said, let's get into this, gloves off (I feel like being down and dirty because I'm sick as hell).
Blogs serve two purposes in the practical scheme of things- they entertain and they increase awareness. Certain specialized blogs, such as sporting blogs, may be used as a sort of forum for discussion, but I'm going to put that under the heading of entertainment. Even my blog. I do not really write any of these rants because I think it will change people (if I'm lucky, right?). I write these blogs because, theoretically, I'm hoping to entertain people with some of the more funny things that go through my head. It's a good place to vent, it's a good place to inform people about something, it's a good place to try to entertain "the masses." But I am highly doubtful that if I were to write in my blog about the Genocide in Darfur or about the ethnic cleansing of the Yugoslav Wars that anyone is really going to think much about it once they close the window.
This also goes for posting bulletins on MySpace. Bulletins are for chain letters, for informing people about new pictures or profile layouts or whatever. But let me explain something. We don't need bulletin posts about every little thing that happened in your day (that's why you have a blog- and if it isn't particularly tragic or funny, don't even bother posting it!). We don't need bulletin posts to tell us to go to some sites about violence in Africa or starvation in India or human-rights violations in China. Bulletin posts exists for the sole purposes of posting chain letters and saying "hheeeyyy peeps, I jst posted sum new pix and u guyz should totaly check em out!!!!1"

If you are so concerned about these social causes, stop wasting your time writing blogs about them and go out and do something.

A lot of the problems that get addressed in these little annoying posts are serious issues that need to be dealt with. But wasting time posting MySpace bulletins about them is not going to do anyone any good. Stop writing blogs about it. Stop posting the bulletins. Just stop. Get out and do something to change what you see as a problem. Go collect money or signatures or enlist in the Peace Corps.

And what about me? Always bitching and complaining about things that need to be changed?
I just like to complain about things that don't have any real value in the real world, that are only good to complain about if you can complain in a funny way. That's the only real purpose that my blogs serve. I'm not trying to motivate people to do things to change themselves (except maybe stop annoying me). I just want to entertain and inform, maybe enlighten people about how I see the world. I don't expect anyone to go out into the world and make some drastic change in it. If I've made someone laugh, that's all the change I can ask for. Even the few angry bulletins I've posted have been only to inform and critique- not to urge any changes. I think that makes me a muckraker of sorts, doesn't it?

peace out, y'all