Blogging Unplugged

So I am kind of a dork, right. I wrote this entry yesterday in my little notebook in a cafe because I didn't feel like reading my book. Here it is transcribed for your pleasure:

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At Barnes and Noble, killing time, watching an attractive young med student study an anatomy book and lingering just a bit overlong at full-color drawings illustrating the penis and testes, I was happy. Stifling a giggle, I admired nerd glasses, sexy forearms, and most importantly, big, solid hands.

Digging into my bag, I inserted my iPod ear buds (a term I hate, like they're gonna make my head sprout flowers as if I weren't girly enough) but I didn't turn the device on. It's my secret eavesdropping technique, shhh, nobody knows.

Then he started talking to the guy next to him and the magic was gone. Sure, his voice was sexy enough... but med student he told me (or suggested by his choice of literature)? Ha! Med student my ass!

He just loves the human form. Looking at a model is one thing, but to see the inside gives a whole new perspective and blah blah unoriginal blah.

Turns out his fat, sour-looking, slightly dirty friend is the med student, so after Forearm Boy returned the anatomy book and commenced highlighting some standard art history tome, I turned my iPod on for real hoping my Mendelssohn piano music would sufficiently drown out the boring REM album playing. Oh, how disappointing that was too.

(REM, though admirably persistent in cultivating their every-song-is-the-same sound, will never surpass U2 in that respect and is therefore not even worthy of my contempt.)

I don't hate artists, I'm just tired of the cookie cutter conversations lots of them have, just like I'm sick of hearing freshman music students thinking they're intelligent for adoring Mahler and respecting Bach... or forward-thinking because they own a recording of Lulu.

Seriously, Forearm Boy, there is no beauty in cartoon diagrams illustrating testicular descent unless you count the years you can spend playing with them afterwards.

There's an artform I appreciate.

Dammit, I have an hour to kill before my author comes out to do his talk, and my pumpkin spice frappuccino is almost gone.

That's the only reason I'm sitting here writing in a little notebook in nerd glasses and a hoodie as if I were, Lord help me, some sort of artist.

It wouldn't be the first time I was mistaken for a writer. A kid in Florida thinks I am because he reads my blog (Hi Ian!). A drama teacher from Indiana U did too because he read my now defunct Livejournal of all things, like that's such a swirling miasma of artistic expression.

And pretty much anyone who reads my gay.com profile thinks so too, but mostly I think they just wanna fuck me.

So maybe I will be a writer... I've already got the image: glasses, scrappy appearance when I want it, no money, little notebook. All I'm lacking is talent and inspiration, but can't you get those from a workshop or something?

Now Asshole Cell-Phone Guy is talking real loud into his cell phone like some sort of asshole. He sells insurance, which is appropriate, and he's probably cheating on his wife. Pig.

It's all about sex for him. That's so typical. When we starving artist types cheat, it's only out of out passion for descending testicles. You wouldn't understand.

But I could never be a writer because all I can think of to write about is my life. And all the things in my life I can think of to write about I don't want my mom to read like about the time my friend tried to choke me while we were having sex or the time my other friend bit my ass during sex so I punched him in the face or the time the Republican brought his gun on our first date in case I was a psycho... we had sex anyway.

Don't read my blog either, ok Mom?