I swear, all we did was talk

Right, and so this cute, granola-looking girl flaged me down in front of the library asking if I had some time to spare for the Democratic Party. Relieved that she was not another Jew for Jesus and not entirely looking forward to getting back from lunch on time, I lent her an ear. Well, half an ear, which is really a lot for me considering my political inclinations... or disinclinations as it were. She said something about regaining seats in Congress. The word "incompetence" was used in its usual capacity. It was a typical Democrat spiel/donation request, but the girl was enthusiastic and intelligent, and I was feeling generous, so I decided to give a little and secure my spot in heaven (or possibly hell depending on your God's political party affiliation.) She wanted $100, which is a little steep for me unless it's going towards jeans or home decorating. I settled on $25 and hoped I wasn't wasting her time.

She handed me her clipboard, and I filled out my information, making a game of guessing how many spam mailings and phone calls I would receive as a result. I lost count around infinity and decided to just be surprised. Suddenly, it seemed really important that I try and explain to this nice girl why I wasn't inclined to donate a full $100. Really, the reason was that that's a ridiculous amount to ask for, especially from me, who today looks like a college student or at least a hipster-type in nerd glasses and a little polo shirt and skinny jeans who works at an independant newspaper for free and as a barista on the side for almost free... either way, not someone who can afford to give $100 to everyone on the street who asks. So I racked my brain for an excuse and thought back to my most recent high but necessary expense.

Well it just so happens that that expense was the exterminator a couple weeks ago. Remember the bed bugs? Right. So I was all: "I'd give more, but I just paid an exterminator, it was horrible." And she asked why: "Oh God, what for?" And so I, being notorious for telling my life story to total strangers, proceeded to tell her ALL about the bed bugs. Well, it turns out this was just the catalyst for more. I used to think it was alcohol that put me into spill-my-guts mode, but it turns out living in a new city and having no friends can have similar effects to alcohol in that regard. So after the bed bugs, I told her about my job and how it doesn't pay enough, but everyone says that. And then I told her how I'm trying real hard to meet people, but it's just not working out as planned. We lamented the absence of the Guy who was supposed to be here to hand out the fortune and fabulous cosmopolitan lifestyle when we arrived. I told her all about looking for another job. (I might work for a catering company soon. She used to do that in college.) And I went on and on about every little thing that's been on my mind lately... all that big life stuff that you tell to your therapist, your boyfriend, and your mom.

I wasn't whining, and I don't think I sounded too pathetic. I'm not depressed or anything, please. But deep down inside, I felt like I was paying the Democratic party for the brief companionship of this girl. Step right up! $25 to tell this girl anything you want, just $25 folks! For as long as it takes you to fill out this clipboard, we'll give you a chance to let it all out, just $25 for the piece of mind that there's someone (anyone?) out there who will listen to your pathetic ramblings! I feel bad about it, possibly in a similar way to other men who pay for relations of any variety, not that I'd know anything about how that feels, I mean please, look at me. I just really needed someone to talk to at that exact moment. Thinking back on it, though, I think I just need to drink some beer. I haven't had beer in a long time. I need to drink beer and sit at a bar with a pool table and a juke box and Adult Swim playing on mute. It would help if it were filled with gay people. Do they even make those kinds of places in New York?

To conclude, today I paid the Democratic party for the companionship of a young woman. But don't tell her that. For some reason, girls don't like being compared to whores, I don't know why.

You're buggin' what, you're buggin' who, you're buggin' me, and don't you see that ain't cool

Today's topic is bed bugs comma the extermination of.

Woe unto me, I picked up this attractive little pestilence on the Fourth of July because I got drunk and went home with someone the night before, let's not discuss it. We're still dating. Whatever, I'm on it. A few days later: "Wow, I itch! Look at all these funny bumps. If I have scabies again, I'm going to kick his ass." Well when it didn't go away, I saw a young doctor (my insurance kicked in, YAY) and she told me "You have bed bugs." And I said "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over your nose ring. Did you say bed bugs?" Well at least it wasn't scabies.

Ah, how naive. Now I pray nightly for scabies because bed bugs are so much horrider! Apparently I took one or two home that day, and they've been living in my house and liberally feeding on some of my fleshier areas. I had to call an exterminator, and he came Wednesday morning, which I also took off from work. Right, so he comes SUPER early in the morning because I guess his job doesn't suck enough so his company says he has to start work at 7 a.m. Fine whatever, I wanted him out, so the earlier the better. He proceeds to tear my entire house apart, checks every crack in the floors, all my corners and cabinets and bookshelves. He removes my mattress and flips over my bed (he is very strong) and wow, great, he didn't find any bugs anywhere. But he found "evidence" of them, which is ok because I had already. I knew they were there. Apparently not seeing any bugs is good, though, because it means there aren't very many. So I have concluded that I have 3 because I think that is a good number. I named them Lavergne, Cynthia, and Mariposa in the hopes that they are all female and will not reproduce.

So we locked up my retarded cat and he sprayed everywhere with this stinky wet stuff and I actually fell asleep on the couch until he kicked me off. In all, the exterminator got to see the weird yuck at the bottom of my sink, the dirty litter box, the furry couch, my book on anal sex that I forgot to hide (I didn't buy it, don't be ridiculous, someone left it on the recycle bin downstairs where the communal leave-your-book-here area is), and my dirty underwear which he actually touched. Whatever, who cares, I shower.

Oh, and there's no guarantee the bugs are gone because they're such good hiders. And I won't know for a while because the bites I already have will continue to itch and the ones I got before might take a day or two to show up.

It's disgusting. Just imagine for a moment going to sleep at night knowing with 100% certainty that a blood-sucking insect is going to feed on you in a matter of hours. Needless to say, I haven't slept well in two weeks, though I have some security now that my exterminator has been through.

Oh, but wait... it cost me $460. There goes my Paris vacation.

So don't get bed bugs. Don't ever go home with anyone. And try not to touch anyone ever again either. It's the only way to be safe.

Not that there's anything wrong with Chelsea (or Chipotle)

Yet another friend of mine is having issues with one of those ridiculous "tragic" gay boys that have afflicted all of our lives in some way or another. You know the type, and you know you've either dated, slept with, lived with, or been one before, probably all at once, which is basically the recipe for a supernova of inevitable yet needless drama about which you feel the need to complain to me even though I told you to stay away from the asshole in the first place. In case you're still unsure about to whom I am referring, here are some characteristics to help you paint a mental picture, though I encourage you to use washable paints:

• Is under 21, though as I progress through my own early twenties, it would seem this age level is negotiable
• Wears eyeliner, perhaps foundation (and if you're really lucky, eyeshadow) for attention because he's so unique and then wonders why he gets his ass kicked all the time
• Steals from, lies to, and plays head games with friends and is then gets mad when they get upset because they don't understand him
• Clothing and appearance can only be described as a cry for help
• Is convinced that all his hardships as a kid are worse than they really were and that somehow, that makes him better than the rest of us, I guess it's because he thinks bad things make them more mature or something, whatever get over it
• Usually is thin, goddamn him, but not in a sexy way. Gym what?
• Regardless of context, inserts stories of dubious veracity about how he sleeps around, knows lots of guys, strips, is addicted to drugs, and/or prostitutes himself (not that there's anything wrong with that) in a faux casual way, again, as if that makes him better because ooooh you have so much life experience and command over men, yet with this tragic acceptance, you must be really strong inside, but I still feel sorry for you, sure you can live with me until your parents let you go home again

You get the idea. And you probably have somebody in mind too. Right, so my friend was dissed by one even though he walked right into his stupid trap. So they have been talking for a while, and the kid says really nice things and calls him all the time but then is all mean and evasive, but my friend sticks around anyway. A few days ago, they're talking online when the kid said "I need sex" or something, and my friend was all "Yeah, right, well I can't right now, sorry" (only something more playful and coy) and the tragic kid was all "Whatever, I wasn't asking" (even though he was) and then my friend got all upset because he really liked the tragic kid, I dunno, maybe because of all the stimulating conversations they've had, who knows. The point is, the tragic kid told him he had no interest even though all he ever does it call my friend and act all interested, it's retarded. And he said some mean things.

So my friend writes me this whole big e-mail because he's upset (right, valid, the tragic kid is, after all, upsetting) and I'm like "Yeah, ok, I've heard this story before and I tried to tell it to you two weeks ago" but I didn't say that. I said this:

He's screwing with you. I wouldn't take anything he says seriously, be it nice or mean. His behavior is too inconsistent to be genuine, and I think you should just wash your hands of him and move on. If he calls to apologize, it will probably be to just string you along. People like him feel the need to collect followers, not necessarily for the purpose of having loyal subjects, but to have people to refer to in their head to justify their own image of value that they construct with exaggerated stories and made-up drama. I've come across 1,000 people like him, all the same, and they'll all end up either growing up and being mortified at how they acted as teenagers or not growing out of it, moving to Chelsea, sleeping around, pretending they've experienced everything and they know so much, and working the counter at Chipotle until they find some deluded younger guy to move in with (and not pay rent) because they think they can shape him into a decent human in their own image. So forget about it.

And don't feel bad about what he says. You can't properly construct an idea of what he really thinks of you when he plays games like that. At best he likes you and can't handle the prospect of a real friendship or relationship. At worst, he doesn't like you and is holding you in a manupulative limbo for his own benefit. Either way, there are better ways to spend your time.

Pack up, move on.

That's what I have to say. Oh, and also that you're 5 years older than me and even I'm too old for him, so you can borrow my calculator next time you meet someone who can't go to the bars.

That was the e-mail. Anyway, this is basically my public announcement that I don't want to hear it anymore, and if you're going to insist upon fawning over people with abhorrent personalities you deserve what you get. I encourage you to print out the above list and keep it with you when you go out so you can refer to it when you meet people. If they fit any one of those items, just walk away, except for the eyeliner one, that can be ok because boys in eyeliner are hot as long as they do it right, which a lot of them don't so use your judgment if you have any.

Shiny

I hate being on time to work. It just makes the day that much longer.

Also the subway's more crowded.

It's 9:30, and I've done a lot. Usually I'm just walking in around now.

Ok, maybe I'm not THAT late all the time. Still, I'm already hungry for lunch.

Why do people choose to be responsible? It sucks.

Maybe I'll go home early.

Lately, the only thing I've wanted to do (besides sit on my couch and watch Charmed) is read the Harry Potter books. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I've already read them all 2, 3, 4, or 5 times depending on how long they've been out. But I want to do it again, ok?

I believe this represents a major shift in my general disposition and level of motivation that's occured this past... I dunno... month. Let's review my drives and desires from then and now and see what we can learn:

A month ago I wanted to...

• Learn Japanese


• Read a (grown-up) book a week


• Make my apartment totally awesome and clean


• Meet tons of people, go out all the time, and discover all the awesome things the city has to offer


• Volunteer or get a second job

Now I want to...

• Read Harry Potter again


• Finish Season 5 of Charmed so I can get to reading Harry Potter again


• Play video games (a lot! Give me Katamari or give me death!)

You may have noticed that the entire current list can be performed on my couch. Yet, this isn't me just falling into laziness by default. I actually strongly desire to do these things. Today, I am going to a pride party at the JCC. I'm meeting someone I used to know in high school there, and it will be a great opportunity to make friends (gay Jew friends, the best kind). Ok, great! I don't want to go. If it weren't for the fact that I had to pre-register and it cost me $20, I would probably skip it in favor of the third Charmed disc and the remainer of my Pepperidge Farms Soft Batch cookies (there are only two, this is not a pig-out thing.)

Being fat and lazy is nothing new to me. I can't even count the number of hours I spent watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer when I was in Indiana. But there, I had nothing else to do a lot of the time. And I always felt guilty about it. But now, the active drive to be passive makes it feel nothing but right. Unfortunately, I'll never make friends this way, and as my drives will undoubtedly shift again in the future to something more like last month, I really need to get on that so I have people to do stuff with when the time comes and I have conquered 6 novels, 15 episodes, and who knows how many Katamari stars.

But maybe if I take care of finding friends tonight, I'll be ok. That's it! I'll meet someone or sometwo tonight, right, and on the way home I'll get some kitty litter. And then my responsibilities will be out of the way, and I can sit alone in my apartment was much as I want! If the party is supposed to be fun, I won't want to go, but I'll just think of it as a chore that allows me afterwards to do everything I want to do! I'm such a genius, it's a shame my goal in life right now is to waste away all by myself because I could make such a great thinker.

UPDATE!
Since writing everything up there, I have taken an hour-long break for lunch where I sat in Bryant Park with my sushi and overheard three poorly-groomed young men enthusiastically discuss their latest joint session of World of Warcraft. From what I could tell, two of the boys played characters that were some variety of female homunculus. As they snorted and guffawed (this was the first time I had heard an actual guffaw, which I had previously thought a myth) their way through a retelling of some epic battle against the Archmagelords of Tuatha de Danan or something (I made that up), I felt my very brain chemistry changing. Maybe it was the unsettling gleam in their eyes. Maybe it was the occasional whiff of their intoxicating* musk. But suddenly video games and television don't sound so appealing anymore, and my mind has reawakened to the merits of making friends (though, I should add, in-person interaction) and learning something actually useful from a quality work of adult literature.

By the way, I have nothing against gamers. Really, some of my best friends are MMORPGers. But they also shower, leave the house, compose sentences not of the formula "[Magical battle move] was totally sweet", and do not trim their facial hair into weird shapes. There's a difference. You know the type I mean, so don't go getting all defensive.


* Emphasis on toxic.

Bounce your Bubis

Another rampantly immature day befalls me as I catalog music by Anton ("One Ton") Titz and books of the photography of Bubi Heilemann. All I need now is more vocal music by Richard Cumming, and the years will just melt away. I know there's a certain age when we're supposed to get over such stupid, juvenile, peverted humor, but apparently that age is not 23. Then again, I'm also not laughing or really finding it funny.... just noticing. Does that mean I'm humorless?

Is that why I don't have any friends? Right, so despite what I may have said in the past, I don't really have any friends out here yet. Whatever, I'm not really worried about it. Plus, things are looking up because a guy I didn't know in high school called me out of the blue, and we're going to a Gay Jew Party on Thursday. Hopefully I won't get asked out by a guy with a name from a fantasy novel and a guy who is entirely too obsessed with Sylvia Plath like I did at the last gay function I attended. Though I plan to wear the same outfit because I looked super cute. I hope eating an entire meat lovers pizza in one sitting last night doesn't have an effect on that.

Making friends is harder than it looks on TV. I thought my life would be just like that show... what's it called... I dunno, something like "Hot 20-somethings in New York Who Are All Friends and Date a Lot and Have These Awesome Apartments Even Though They're Just a Waitress". But instead, it's more like the show "I Guess I'll Do My Laundry Tonight and Maybe Rent a Movie Again."

Nah, I'm kidding, I go out. I've met lots of people, I just don't stay in contact with them. It might be a pickiness issue, but it might be also because I'm humorless and boring now that I'm a real librarian with bills to pay. I need a haircut. Maybe if I get a haircut and look prettier, I'll have more friends. Last time I got a haircut.... oh right, I was dumped. But I also slept with this really really beautiful and charming man afterwards (not like right after, I'm not that pathetic, it was a few days). He looked like a rockstar. I'd give him a call, but he was kind of a weird kisser and he bit my ass, which was jarring and strange if not entirely unpleasant.

Maybe it's a pickiness issue after all. Whatever, who needs friends NOT ME! I like being alone with my cat watching Charmed and eating ice cream every night. Whine bitch complain, why don't people like me?????/ omgwtf avral sucks at least my blog reeders wil alwayz b my friends 4-eva! i <3 u guyz!!!1!

Don't you like the way I transitioned from people with boob names into not having friends into talking like a r3t4rd? Seamless! I'm such a genius writer. I think I'll write a poem about that and about how you should read my blog every day even when I don't write in it.

Untitled

I am such an awesome writer
I spin webs better than a spider.
I know all of these great words
That you don't know because you are nerds.
But I don't use them so you don't feel dumb
And then go home and drown your sorrows with rum.
You may think I write really crappy
But at least I don't go on about my stupid, sappy
Feelings unless I'm being ironic.
Those lame-ass blogs make me want a colonic.
I have so many important things to say.
You should read my blog every day.
My blog is green, pink, yellow, and blue.
And it tastes just like beef and vegetable stew.
If you do not read all of my blog now,
I will stampede you with a flock of cows.
No, of course I did not read your sucky blog today.
I am too busy for something so gay.

L'envoi
Read my blog, it is the very best.
It will put lots of hair on your chest
Kinda like tabasco sauce.
You will look like Who's the Boss.
So don't shave it.
I'm your favorite.
I am fun.
Git 'er done.

Two for the show

Never take the second urinal.

There are three urinals. One, two, three. Pretend you are a man. You can be Man A. Man A (you) needs to pee. As Man A approachs the set of three (3) urinals, he must choose which one is right for him. During this approach, Man B (let's use me) enters the restroom. Man A's (your) choice has just been made quite a bit easier because of the Rules of Urinal Selection that every human male is born understanding. I provide here the relevant rule so you don't need to look it up at your local library:

Section IIa, Rule #5

When choosing a urinal:
a) from a set of three available and consecutive
b) when those three are the only three in the restroom
c) in the company of other men,

this is one case where second is not the best.

As a whole, this set of rules emphasizes distance and privacy. Choosing the second urinal means the person behind Man A (Manet... wait, no, I mean you) must choose one immediately adjacent to him. Unpleasantness like that can be avoided.

Perhaps you have seen through my clever charade of the hypothetical Manet and Man Bee to realize that this happened to me today, and I was Man B. Good on you. I don't get why people do this, but it freaks me out. I always pick the urinal farthest from anyone, and if that is impossible, the one nearest the person who looks like he's closest to being done. When alone, I choose one in a corner, preferably a corner furthest from the stalls. Urinal selection is a delicate process, but there is a clear correct answer to any given bathroom layout and occupation status. Today's Man A failed.

It is easier when a failing Man A is some icky man because I can just sort of go into myself, hunch my shoulders, and get it done. (I'm really good at peeing in public, by the way, no matter what this little diatribe might imply. Pee shy? Psh, why? Peeing is super fun, I'd never be scared of it. But that doesn't mean I like other people doing it near me.) Ok, what was I saying? Oh, right, so with icky guys it's ok. But today's Man A was this really hot blonde guy with awesome skin and perfect arms. So being right next to him was this major willpower challenge. "I wanna look.... I wanna look... I wanna look...." I mean... I had to see if he had a piece to back up his pretty face. But I resisted, and he went away.

Anyway, learn the rules, guys. Google them, I'm sure there's something there.

Rhythmus and blues

This is another boring post about Being a Librarian, so you might just wanna move on to the next blog in your list.

Ok, I specialize in music and my primary secondary language is German. So apart from doing scores, they send me music books in German (and English) to do original cataloging. They say I'll get other stuff later, but for now I should stick with what I know (German (and English)) since I'm a new cataloger. Ok, whatever, thanks for your good faith. Well it turns out they have a point, and the reason I know they have a point is because I've been totally over my head when it comes to original cataloging of books. This is because a) I have not cataloged a book in like a zillion (that's one with a zillion zeros) years, not since my intro to cataloging class in library school, and there I wasn't even doing it alone. Also b) despite what they said, not a single book I have gotten has been in German. Or English.

I'm not sure who's in charge of sorting all this shit out, but somebody needs a crash course in What Is Not German. For starters, here's a handy quick reference guide:

The Following are NOT German:

• Dutch


• Danish


• Finnish


• Czech


• and especially


• Swedish

And yet, I have accumulated 12 books in these languages that are stowed away in a secret place because I don't really fancy going up to my boss and saying "I'm too stupid to do these." I mean, I may be good at music, but that doesn't mean I can tell you what these crazy books are about. One has a violin on the cover. One has the word "Finnish" in real big letters. That is the only word in English, the rest is in (wonders behold!) Finnish.

So today when I received a book in German titled "Rhythmus", I was totally excited to be able to do something right for a change. It's a collection of essays. Ok, great, essays about rhythm, this is easy! So I read the back of the book and discover, much to my dismay, how much different German is from Smart People German (Smartpeopledeutsch). "What are these words???" Every word was hyphenated because it took up more than one line, and none of them were or contained "Musik" or "Komponist" or "Theorie" or anything. I saw "Kunst", which was kinda ok because it means Art.... and something that looked suspiciously like Krebs Cycle, which certainly didn't belong. Certainly, right?

Well, it turns out it was Krebs Cycle. I went back and focused more, and I did better this time. The back of the book translated essentially to: "There's rhythm in everything! So this is a book about everything! Nobody else has cataloged it, so I guess it sucks to be you, ha ha! You should have studied harder in German 203 and not quit like a quitter. Ach!"

So basically, I looked at all the little essays inside. There were some about music, specifically rhythm in music. So I used that as a subject heading. I saw one on Paul Klee, so I found a heading about rhythm in art, which redirected me to Composition (Art). I was like "Great, that makes me look kinda smart. I was afraid all my headings would have 'rhythm' in them and everyone would know that an ignorant loser cataloged this book." Then I saw in the book what looked like "Circadian rhythm" and a couple essays with diagrams of light spectrums, so I decided to go with a general "biological rhythm" type heading. One said "Mesopotamia" in it. I pretended not to see that one. One section of one essay was about day and night, so I decided to round it out with "Cycles", which it seems is a subject heading. And then I threw in "Rhythm" for good measure. It put that one on top.

Then I looked at my record and thought "Hey, this looks super good! I really, nobody's REALLY going to know if I completely screwed this up, I bet librarians bullshit knowledge all the time!" Nevertheless, I opted not to update the record on OCLC (the big ol' database every library ever uses) and just put it into our own. So that's what I did.

All in all, I felt good about how it turned out. I picked up the book and started taking it to where it needs to go to be bound, feeling light and happy with a sense of accomplishment. I felt empowered. Then I dropped the book and accidentally stepped on it and bent the cover and kinda tore the title page and all my good feelings went away, but whatever, nobody will know it was me.

Open letter to Claudia

Work is getting most seriously annoying as somebody is tuning a piano in the lobby (an unbearable process to sit through and one that I thought I would never have to again) and then stupid things keep happening that I have to fix, the most recent being that the Los Angeles Public Library, in their infinite wisdom, when cataloging the guitar music for Story of the Year's first album Page Avenue decided to classify this "screamo" punk rock band as "Contemporary Christian". I'm not entirely sure what gave them this idea, and after investigating the lyrics to some selections (namely "Swallow the Knife" and "Razorblades") I deduced that this was perhaps not an accurate classification. So I was stuck searching the internet for information on this group on a website that would not play crazy music out of my speakers, for you see, I have no control over my computer's volume here at work. It took me quite a while to find a website that was all of silent, void of uncloseable floating ads for various products obscuring the information, and not written by a 13-year-old who thought these lyrics that I read actually had some literary value to someone not angsty and/or suicidal. I finally landed mtv.com, which I had skipped at first thinking it would be loud and ad-ridden. Turns out it's just kind of annoying because it reloads a lot and sometimes the buttons don't work. Anyway, I ended up choosing the subject headings "Emo (Music)" and "Punk rock music". (This whole process would have been made much easier had "Screamo" been a valid Library of Congress Subject Heading, but alas, the closest the database could suggest for that was "Screech owls".)

But I digress. The point is that I wish to avoid work for a moment by writing the following open letter to my friend, Claudia, as I most certainly owe it to her. Hem-hem:

Dearest Claudia,

I am SO so so so so sorry I have not responded to your e-mail from way before and also the myspace message you sent yesterday. You lamented that the only thing you have heard from me is what you read here, and that is why I am responding in the form of an open letter... because of the irony or something, I dunno. I hope you are well.

Things are great here, camp is fun. We made decoupage boxes and macaroni pictures, and I saw a really bad French movie called La Moustache the other day, but I think it might have actually been good and not bad. You can never tell with French movies.

I was thinking of you the other day because I was on a date with this charming Greek boy who will be a rich lawyer within the year, and he made a comment that British people are not "real" Europeans. I did not understand it, but I thought to myself "I wonder if Claudia thinks British people are 'real' Europeans."

Mostly what I do during the day is go to work and then go out and wander around except on the rare days I actually have a friend. It may sound really arrogant to say it, but I'm having trouble making friends because they keep wanting to date me. At this point, the only person I feel really comfortable hanging out with is the guy who broke up with me a couple weeks ago. Also my friend Jerry, he's pretty cool. Anyway, after I'm done hanging out or wandering around, I usually go home and neglect to go on the internet and just sit there with my kitty and read and watch TV. It's pretty nice.

I'm also super good at my job. Today I found out that "screamo" is not a real genre of music, at least according to the Library of Congress.

Come visit soon like you were planning, I definitely have time. We can go to Nintendo World and piss off all the 12-year-olds by hogging the the womb chairs and playing Lego Star Wars over and over again even though the demo time keeps running out. ...Or not, I mean whatever you want to do is fine.

Anyway, I'd better get back to work because I go on break in a couple minutes, and I don't want to miss that. Today I am buying a lock for my gym locker just in case I have to straight there after work because I neglected to in the morning like today. My cell number's the same.

Let me know what is new in your life plz n ty. Even though you are all the way over there, I remain most

Faithfully yours,
~Too Hotty~

What have they done for me, huh?

It's pouring rain, I have no umbrella, and I'm late getting back to work. In front of the library, this girl with a clipboard says "Excuse me!" Oh Christ, here we go.

Do you have a minute?
-- Actually, it's raining and I'm late getting back to work.
Aw, come on, get wet with me.
(Yuck.)
-- I can't, really.
Awww, c'mon please?
-- .... fine. Walk with me.
Sure!
[We do not walk... very Waiting for Godot.]
My name is [who cares], and blah blah, spiel, Children's International, 16 cents a day, you can help a baby.
-- No, I don't think so.
Aww, c'mon, it's nothing, don't you want to help babies?

Now that ain't fair. What kind of question is that? "No, of course I don't want to help babies. I want them all to perish because I am evil. Listen to this evil, baby-killing laugh: BWAHAHAHAHAHA!" No. Babies are fine. I just can't do that right now. Why? Well, I'll tell you.

I have $X in my bank account. After I pay my bills this afternoon and get food for myself, i will have X - (what I just spent). Let me grab my calculator... doo-dee-doo, OOOOH single digits YES! Don't stop me in the rain, tell me falsely what I can afford, and then whine when I don't fill out your little forms. Yes, whine.

What? C'moooon, no saving babies?
[My shrug says "Guess not"]
No saving babies???? (Said as if I just killed and ate a live puppy in front of her. And now I'm done. No means no.)
-- Nope! No saving babies. They'll be fine!

I was nice to you, and I even told you to walk with me so I could hear what you were about. I could have blown you off. So don't put on that pathetic face and make me feel like some sort of horrible alien motherlord baby-eater. People can only have so many issues. They can only help with so many things. If I gave money to every organization and homeless person who asked, I'd be poorer than they are. I sponsored a friend on his AIDS run. I donated to an animal shelter. I climbed down a bridge and almost killed myself on slick rocks to save a baby duck separated from its mother and stranded on a rock in a swift current. (Some thanks I got for that. The mommy duck tried to peck out my eyes.) So maybe that's not a lot, and I'm certainly not gloating... the point is people do what they can when they can, and if they can't, they can't. It's not that we don't want to help babies. It's not that we like seeing kids in Impoverished Country of the Moment fighting to survive. But I'd like you to know, [Who cares], that copping a childish attitude with people who don't give you money is mroe assuredly not the way to encourage us to look to Children International for possible future contributions.

But here they are: Children International Help out if you can.

Catalogtistic

I'm feeling totally autistic today, and I can't snap out of it. So I'm sitting here at work with a really interesting pile of scores to go through, but all I can manage to do is stare at my fixed field reading the same letters over and over again, processing them in any but a productive way. It's unbelievable, I've never zoned out so uncontrollably or with so much focus. My mind is going, but it's like not part of my experience of the world right now. For my next trick, I will gaze fixedly at a subject heading for six straight hours while simultaneously drooling and calculating pi.

I thought some coffee would help, but it just made me jittery and anxious. It would seem that the only thing that snaps me out of it is writing in my blog, mostly because here I can channel my retarded thoughts without any responsibility to importance or cohesiveness.

In unrelated news, somebody took a pencil from me while I was gone, and I feel like fucking Milton. I understand that it's an expected consequence of having the office phone at one's desk, but if it keeps happening, I won't have any penicls at all! And it was my good one, too. So I noticed there's a little space to write on the pencil cup I bought at Staples after my first day, and I wrote on it. I wrote "Pencil Cup." in regular pencil. And then I wrote "For me." in blue pencil. And last, I wrote "Mine." in red pencil. So hopefully, it will deter any future thievery.

Happy 6-6-6, by the way. I think there's a movie coming out, but I'm not sure. It might help if on every construction site, subway, and billboard in all of New York there were a cryptic sign that said 6.6.06 and didn't say what it was about so you think it's a stupid death metal band releasing an album or hey, maybe the real apocalypse, but you don't really care, and then suddenly you find out "Ohhhhh, it's a movie with Julia Stiles, I guess all that unnecessary vagueness was supposed to make that interesting." ...for instance. That's just an example, I mean there are other ways to advertise.

Maybe it's the government interfering...

Oooh, I'm so aggravated. So my phone vibrates at me, and I think "Oooh, a text message!" So I peek at it (highly illicitly, I might add, because I am at work), and it's all "Ok, if I tell you something, you have to promise to not get mad." What, phone? What did you do? "Well, ok, so I totally forgot to tell you, but you have 10 voicemails that have been accumulating since Monday. I was kind of in a mood all week, and I haven't been ringing except sometimes, and I just forgot about the messages PLEASE can we still be friends, I promise I'll never do it again. Oh, and I don't know who they're from, I haven't been logging your missed calls."

What the fuck, man? We're totally in a fight.

I haven't listened to these messages yet, but I'm pretty much certain they're going to be from just one or two people saying like "Why haven't you returned my calls, where are you, I hate you, you are ass!" All in a sentence like that. I'm kind of afraid to listen to them at all, but then I'm sure one would be about "Ooh, I've been kidnapped, and they only allowed me one phone call! Please save me by Tuesday!"

My phone's name is Marge, but from now on, I'm calling her Bitchface. I just bought it a couple weeks ago to replace my lost one, and it was working just great! I dunno, maybe it's a reception thing... and I NEVER have it. But I somehow doubt that.

I'm fairly certain this is why I haven't heard from my mom in days. Also, if you're one of my devoted fans and I haven't called you back, that's why. Please forgive Marge.

In conclusion, technology sucks and we should go back to carrier pigeons.

Jewn

I went to lunch and came back tan, though one might also suggest that I went to lunch and came back with sun poisoning. I'm still harboring hopes that it's just dry skin. Either way, it's not on my face, so who cares NOT ME! I'm feeling adolescent today, and I want to indulge that as much as possible.

I'm wearing a loud shirt. I sun bathed. I stared at men sunbathing. (Bryant Park is the best place to work next to. It's better than what you work next to, I bet. Unless you're a lifeguard.) I'm cataloging a score for a cello piece by Lars Klit, and the S is written such that it looks like a G. Everything about today is either fun, tan, nostalgic, hormonally stimulating, or immature, and I love it. I slept in. I dressed to Britney Spears. I ate pizza for breakfast. And I really really want to have sex (specifically, with the man on the red towel with the cool sunglasses... I wonder if he's still there....)

Furthermore, tonight I am going to some comedy group thing, after which I will meet one of everyone's favorite bit players in a movie: The Bend 'n Snap Guy from Legally Blonde! The more I think about it, the excitinger it is. He's in the group, and he's friends with my friend who I'm going with, so we're going to be bffs I just know it.

Today is 2 kewl + 2 B = 4-gotten! HAGS everyone!

Rack, Shack, and Benny don't even know

I just ate an entire giant chocolate bunny. For the moment, I'm blaming it on getting dumped this weekend (yeah, so leave me alone) but really, it only has to do with the fact that I felt like eating it, so I did. It wasn't one of those bullshit hollow ones either, this was like a big honkin' solid monster bunny.



That's me on the left, I'm wearing a disguise so I don't get beat up by ugly, dykey, gay-bashing bitches at Coyote Ugly ever again like this weekend. I would have blogged about it, but it was all too painful.

So basically I negated going to the gym this morning. And now I'm staying up late to type this asinine blog entry about eating a chocolate bunny so I'm not going to get up to go to the gym tomorrow either. I chose the word asinine because it has ass in it, and that's where the bunny will be tomorrow.

I also met a red-headed Irish guy in Central Park today because I was lost and apparently I was going in circles, and he knew I was lost, so he told me where south was. Anyway, he was on his bike and he had a little hat on and with his red hair and beard and accent, he looked just like a stereotype and so we can't be friends because I don't date leprechauns.

Scary-an the Librarian

Holy shit! So I'm sitting here quietly cataloging the a book of John Hammond songs (with such homoerotic masterpieces as "Going Down Slow", "Down in the Bottom", "Crawling King Snake", and "Back Door Man") and listening to a corny tour being given below:

The number one question I get at the reference desk: "Where's the bathroom?" The number two question: "Where are all the books? If this is a library, where are the books at?" Well, they're under...

If you're a librarian, you know why that's corny, but it always makes tourists laugh. Anyway, the tour passes, it's rather peaceful in here when all of a sudden this horrific, shrill, blood-curdling voice screams "I CAN'T FUCKING TAKE IT! SHUT UP ALREADY, PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO WORK UP HERE!"

Jesus Christ! She sounded like The Wicked Witch of the West if the witch were insane, in withdrawl, PMSing, and being brutally tortured all at once.

It scared the hell out of me. I turned around to see what was going on, and nothing was out of the ordinary. Nobody was standing up seething with rage like I expected. Nobody was even whispering "What the fuck was that?" to anyone. It was as if things like that happen all the time around here like "Oh, that's just Crazy Martha. Don't worry, she only sounds like a ravenous, soul-sucking banshee. Really, she just has a lot of feelings."

No, these were not feelings. Happiness is a feeling. Anger is a feeling. This was an episode.

I asked a coworker later what on earth had happened, and she told me this woman just does that every now and then. But she assured me I had nothing to worry about because the woman is small, and if I felt threatened, I could just knock her on the head and she'd fall over. We laughed at this for a moment, and then I walked by the woman's desk to see what she looked like. I had never seen her before, and she looked as you'd expect from hearing such an outburst: dirty, unbrushed hair, pale skin, crazy eyes... she was a crazy straight out of a cartoon or a Dilbert comic strip. So if one day I don't come home from work, it's because I've been taken hostage by a raving office stereotype and the only one who can save me is Scott Adams.

What happened to classic "Shhhh, this is a library?" Maybe this woman is the next generation.

Woe, as I say, and betide

Yeah, I deleted the last entry. Bad form, I know, ok, get over it.

Yesterday I was awoken at 6 by the neighbor's dog, kept up by the recycling guy dumping bottles, tortured by no hot water in the shower, and annoyed when not one, not two, but three subway trains passed me by because there were so many people waiting. I was dehydrated, tired, and unable to focus. But my day turned around when I took an hour-long nap after lunch in the "Quiet Room", my new favorite staff area.

But apparently one aggravating morning wasn't enough. Oh no. Not if you get a nap, you have to get another crappy morning so we can have another go at screwing up a whole day! So I woke up well because I set my alarm to my new KT Tunstall album, so I was like singing from the second note in, which was nice. And then I screwed around for a while and showered and was like "Ooh, I totally get to be on time today!" But I get to the subway station, and there's this announcement that's all "Oops, yeah, we fucked everything up. The six train's all broke, so we put a 4 train or two on the local tracks. They're at 126th St. Thanks for being patient." Yeah, you're welcome, except I'm NOT being patient. After maybe 15 minutes, the first train comes, but there are SO many people on it. One old guy tried to get on like an idiot. He was standing half on the platform and then he's all surprised when the door starts closing on him. What a maroon. I made a mental note to displace him when the next train came.

Unfortunately, that wasn't for another 15 to 20 minutes. However, thoughts of him were discarded when the door stopped directly in front of me. There was room for one skinny person with a shoulder bag. Serendipity at last! But again, I was reminded the dismal state of human intelligence when about 6 tried to fit in after me. I stood my ground (not that I could move anywhere if I wanted to.) A women behind me was like "Do you think you people could move in a little? I know there's room, I can see it." Now this was ridiculous because the woman was about 5 and a half feet tall and couldn't see over my shoulder if she jumped. I remained silent until she pushed me, at which point I had reached my limit of Her-Being-a-Bitch. I pushed back, and I turned around to her and said "I can see over everyone's head. There is NO room to move or we would." And she opened her mouth to argue when the doors started closing on her and she too was forced back. Victory! I smiled with satisfaction, and I'm sure she saw.

At the next stop, I found my way into a corner so I could ride the rest of the way relatively undisturbed. Things got better from there until I realized how behind I was. So I finally get to work and looked at my cell phone clock: 9:40. Impossible! Forty minutes late when I was supposed to be on time! Early even! Rage!

Whatever.

So I get to my big old work area and turn on my computer and wait for it to power up when I notice something is wrong. It's so quiet. Oh, so quiet. So I looked around to realize that I was totally alone. My entire office of like 20 people was completely deserted. The tumbleweed blew silently by as I thought "What in the hell is going on?" So I look around. The fast cataloging unit is empty too. "What day is it? Is it Saturday?" But I realized it couldn't be or I'd have woken up with the guy I'm seeing. (This was seriously my rationale.) Finally I ran into Nancy, who works in neither unit, but in the area of both. I said to her "Where did the library go?" Apparently there was a meeting I was never told about because I am not on some special listserv that I should have automatically been put on. The entire professional and support staff (including Nancy) knew about it. But by this point it was 9:50. The meeting ended at 10:30. I wasn't about to show up halfway through, even if I knew where in the hell the auditorium was. Oooh, I was aggravated. Nancy assured me that the meeting was optional and showed me the itenerary that was e-mailed to everyone (else) and I just thought "This looks like a waste of time, if this were really optional, nobody would go. I'm probably required to be there and will get fired." Still, I opted out. Oh well.

So I'm here at my desk in my lonely office. I have cataloged one thing and spent the rest of the time writing this, which was first an e-mail to that guy I'm seeing, now adapted for the big screen in this blog entry. This morning sucks.

Oh, and speaking of rage, I want to share a poem that I find to be a masterpiece of the written word. It was written by a composer after a movement of a piece. The movement was called 'Rage.' So is the poem. I think it speaks for itself:

Rage

No more sweet songs for me.
You cut the tree that held my nest-
You burned the brush that fed my young-
Your metal monsters killed my mate,
smashing her to the street,
chasing me when I tried to fly to her, to comfort...
No more sweet songs for me.
I'm small and weak,
but not my rage.
Ruin the world!
Destroy yourselves!
No more sweet songs for me!
Listen each night as you try to sleep
and hear my new song:
damn you humans, damn you.
Damn you. Damn you. DAMN YOU!

David L. Adams - Judith's Dream

My favorite part is when the bird screams "Damn you!" The part where the bird is run over by a truck is pretty good too. I think we should all be nicer to birds and nature.

This probably makes no sense, ignore it, it's stupid anyway

Today there was a disconnect. The cognitive dissonance to end all cognitive dissonances. More of a cognitive cacaphony, really... a sort of aleatoric nightmare symphony of 1,000 transistor radios turned to satellite stations from around the globe.

I am having a great day, though all of the events and portents I have experienced suggest that I should not. I woke up late and did not realize it so that after I showered, I had 10 minutes to get to work. It took 30. I did not care.

Before leaving the house, I noticed my cat had peed on my clean laundry. "Silly kitty," I thought as I smiled and patted her head.

The woman training me to catalog scores showed me a record I had made and was particularly proud of. The piece was called "Don't Let That Horse". The black ink in which my record had printed was drowning in a turgid sea of red pencil markings detailing why this was the worst job I had ever done.

Lunch was dank. Yes, dank. Don't ask.

I was having a crappy day... and I was in a great mood.

OCLC was down, rendering my job impossible to perform. (For the uninitiated, OCLC is a lot of things to us librarians, but for the purposes of this essay, it is the thing I use to search for, create, and edit catalog records.) I couldn't even search the database to pull up a record. Nevertheless, I sat there obsessively clicking "Search" like a maniacal Minesweeper junkie, over and over receiving the message

An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.
An error has occured with your search. Please try again.

I felt cold in my workplace, the first pangs of professional zombie-ism eeking into my passionate young mind. What am I doing with myself?

An error has occured with your life. You've blown your only shot.

An emotion (the first of the day) started forming in the howling void of my psyche, and yet it was held back from becoming a true thoughtform by that strange, stupid-happy feeling that won't leave.

I left my desk for an early and extended break.

As I entered the same bookstore/cafe I patronize during every break, I thought "I wonder if there is anything to the fact that I work in a library around books all day and the only place I can think of to go on break is a bookstore (filled with books) whose window presents a spectacular view of... my library. Am I doomed? This feels doomy."

As if in response, the bakery case went dark, the flourescent light extinguished in an undeniable message regarding the state of me. And I just smiled, bemused at the sign that something horrible is about to happen, a nagging feeling I have always nursed no matter how satisfied I feel.

The darkness in that display case spoke to me in a hollow voice: "You're a 9-to-5er. You're going to lose your soul. Look at your crappy day. Every day is going to be like this until your skin turns grey and you lose your free will. OooOOoooOoooOOh!" Basically, my fear of becoming bored and boring was sneaking up again.

And yet I felt right as rain! Inexplicable! Why am I not in a mood? Why don't I feel the way my crappy morning should make me feel? Am I already so detached? No... contentment is not a detached emotion because... well, it's an emotion.

That's when I realized that my strange happiness today was not inexplicable, detached, or otherwise faux or alien or any of the various words I had thought of for it. Bad things happening, forboding thought surfacing... I wasn't happy because I was detached. In fact, the reason I am happy (perpetually happy, even) is because these things happen. These's a subtle distinction here that I'm having trouble articulating.

I realized the day was regular. Bad things happen to me all the time. Every day, I have a million things I can complaing about, and today was like any other. I was just super aware of it for some reason.

I'm not happy because I ignore these things or just don't feel them. I am happy because I can ignore these things though I'm aware of them. Get it? Every unpleasant experience in my life is another chance to say "Ha! Look how everything sucks and I can remain unaffected in the grander sense." It's a decisiveness that's key here... a decisiveness that had become second nature, though I not remember the days when it wasn't. I specifically remember making the turnaround when I was 14 or 15. It gave me a feeling of control over my life, which was both comforting and empowering.

There ended the disconnect. The radios were all tuned to the same station. I was ready to return to work, and OCLC (the client for which is appropriately called Connexion) would probably be working, ready to let me finish my work day smoothly and stress free, though honestly, I kind of hoped that it wouldn't.

Touching base

Look, I have friends now.

I always hate people who are all "OMG, I'm sorry I haven't updated my blog in sooooo long! I promise I'll do it more" because nobody cares. So I'm not making any apologies for anything, I'm just going to tell a story.

Actually, I don't have any stories to tell, at least none that I remember. Every day, something interesting happens to me and I think "Wow, I should totally blog about that. It would be the best blog entry ever." But then I forget what these things are by the time I get in front of a computer. I bought a little notebook to carry around just for general use, but I don't want to pull it out every time I have an idea because I'm not a writer and I don't want to look like a writer not that there's anything wrong with that.

Also, everyone should go to Drag Queen Puppet Bingo at View every week because it's way cooler than whatever lame thing you were doing last night.

I'm so sorry I never update and I promise promise promise I'll do it more more more I miss you guys sooooooo much.

Was: Not a review

I just got Chinese food all over my copy of Was, which I've been reading for approximately 17 years because I can only read about 2 pages at a time during breaks from work and on subway rides. It's good, wordy, depressing... now also "spicy" and "tasty". And now that my Spicy and Tasty Chicken and Cold Sesame Noodles are in the fridge for tomorrow, I can get back to it.

During dinner, I did what I usually do when I'm two-thirds of the way through a book, and I went to read reviews. The only ones I could find were on amazon.com, which sucks for reviews because everyone except me is stupid. Everyone there decided to compare it to Wicked even though the two books have clearly nothing in common except they both say "Oz" a lot. It's funny how people can read a book that other people are reading (Wicked, The Da Vinci Code, Lord of the Rings) or see a movie or play everyone is seeing that's supposed to be good (Wicked, The Da Vinci Code, Lord of the Rings) and suddenly they're like total experts in literature and theatre, and everything gets compared to the two books they've read and maybe Charlotte's Web from childhood. And reading two things with a similar theme, character, or location? Oooh, hold on to your hats! It's time for Compare and Contrast! (You remember Compare and Contrast... it's from when you had to write those "impossible" 5-paragraph essays in the 4th grade.)

I only know three things about literature:

1) The Da Vinci Code sucks.
2) Emma Watson makes a better Hermione Granger than my imagination does.
3) Comparing Was to Wicked is like comparing Nightmare on Elm Street to Miracle on 34th Steet because they're both about streets.

One reviewer (candycanegirl) heartened me when I read the title of her review: "Not meant to be a comparison to Wicked!" But then in her review, she's all "Wicked will never, come close to the work of honest art contained in Was." Ho ho ho! candycanegirl is from South Bend, Indiana.

P.S. My job is awesome, and I'm so good at it because I figured out how to correct my glaring errors that I keep making without asking, so everybody thinks I did it right the first time!

Don't you wanna wanna?

So I'm standing at a dollar per slice pizza stand somewhere over the rainbow (north of Chelsea) enjoying a greasy slice and an orange Fanta with a friend when this... I dunno, gangsta? hoodlum? not a munchkinlander... whatever, this kid with gigantic clothes and one of those stocking-looking things on his head turns to me and says "Hey, I don't wanna say nothin' rude or nothin', but are y'all gay?"

My friend was on his phone, and I could almost hear the gears shift in his head as he started ignoring his conversation and listening in on mine. Upon careful consideration of my situation and my chances of escape, I noticed the genuine curiosity in his eyes. Shocked that he could be so intuitive as to notice, I did a quick hair and eyeliner check in my reflection on his silver teeth and answered in a flat, wary affirmative. The following conversation ensued:

"Really? For how long? When did you turn gay?"
-"You don't turn gay, I've always been since forever."
(Since forever... real smooth.)
"So you be gay since you come outcho momma?"

At this point I considered explaining that people are neither gay nor straight until horomones and sexual desire kick in and that he was technically not straight until he first looked at a girl as a pre-adolescent and got that good down-low tickle, but I settled instead on:

-"Yeah, I guess basically, I mean y'know... essentially [mutter, awkward, not-a-gangsta uncoolness]..."
"Y'all don't like pussy?"
-"Not as such, no."
"Man, really? You ever had pussy before?"
-"Nope... never."
"Man, I can't believe you don't like pussy."

God, I wish he would stop saying that word. Anyway, instead of saying "I can't believe you don't like dick, man, maybe you just haven't tried it" and getting my ass kicked, I just said "I'm really ok with it." The conversation took a turn from there:

"So, you're a fudgepacker."
-Indignantly: "Excuse me?"
"Oh, that's rude, wasn't it..."
-"Yeah, that's rude. That's really rude, thanks."
"Sorry man."

I had no time to be satisfied with his apology because at that point his friend swiped the money he had left on the counter to pay, and my escape route was opened. I turned to my friend (still on the phone) and said "We're going. Now." I pulled my friend across the street leaving the remains of my Fanta shivering and alone on the ledge of the stand.

I couldn't believe my friend didn't save me for that conversation, but I realized he was probably getting back at me for earlier in the day when the Crazy Stinky Man at Starbucks cornered him and told him how they should donate all their travel mugs to the Salvation Army, and I just stood there laughing at him.

Needing a touch of gay to re-establish the balance, we then went to Chelsea for cupcakes where I fell in love with the boy at the bakery.

Last night I dreamt of Fanta and silver teeth.

Where have I been???

The following is excerpted from my livejournal because I have no patience to write anything more. References to Bloomington are to be ignored if you don't live there. Deal with it:

Hi, I'm back! And I'm in sunny New York City! The move-in was great, my apartment is cute and little. I'll have pictures soon enough. There's not too much to say about it.

Mostly, I want to talk about last night because it was super-fun. So I hung out with this kid I'd been talking to for a while. (I'm a loser, so I have to make friends online in advance in order to feel secure about a move.) We went to some gay bar to have drinks. It was called Therapy, and it was kinda like E's only clean, hip, big, full of hot new people, and had amazing music. Really the only reason it was like E's was because I didn't get charged for half the drinks I ordered because my companion for the evening knew the bartender. So I basically chatted with my first new friend, and had a grand old time.

Then I felt like dancing, but he said there was nowhere immediately close to do that, but we went to another bar for a change of scenery. Posh. It was littler, but there was a picture on the wall that I swore up and down to everyone who would listen was Anne Hathaway. And there was a guy there that looked exactly like the guy in a porn I saw once except with nerd glasses. My new friend wanted me to go talk to him, but I was scared and then some hot, buff guy got there first. Sad destiny.

But I still wanted to dance. But there was no dance floor. But I was standing in a kinda open area and I was drunk, so I decided to just start dancing all by myself. So I kinda spaced out and just danced and looked at fake Anne Hathaway and was in my own head when this guy in a cute A|X long-sleeved shirt I wanted to steal came up to me and was like "Everyone's dancing because of you!" I said "What?" and then I looked around and sure enough there were about 20 people dancing all around me! But I was like "Are you serious, I did that?" And he was like "Yeah! You have such power over New Yorkers!"

It was pretty much the best compliment I could have received at that moment. I was so thrilled. And the best part was that a little bit later, I decided I didn't want to dance anymore, so I stopped and in about 2 minutes, nobody was dancing anymore. It was so awesome, I felt like Moses.

Then we went across the street to the Renaissance Diner for that ridiculous greasy meal you need to have when you're drunk and it's 3 a.m. It was similar to a Waffle House experience except instead of Kenya Brown, there was a hot girl waitress, and instead of greasy yucky chicken fingers, I had delicious gourmet chicken fingers with actual romaine lettuce garnish and everything!

Then I discovered that if it's 4 a.m. and you're in Hell's Kitchen and drunk and you need to get to the Upper East Side, your life is about to suck. Apparently the subways don't come except every a million hours, and I needed to take two. So I didn't get back until 5. Luckily, my new friend waited with me and was nice.

So that was my night everyone come visit now because it's so cool ok bye.

One of those undirected ones

Remember that time a few weeks ago when I said I was gonna read The Da Vinci Code? Well I read it over the next couple of days, and it was pretty useless. I forgot to mention it. I know how much you were all holding your breaths waiting to hear what I thought because I am the final voice in literature and movie reviews. But that's all I've got to say: "It was pretty useless." So I'm not going to waste more time on it.

Unfortunately, I don't have anything else to write about except that I've had New York City Boy in my head for the past 4 days, an energizing if cloyingly repetitive reminder that I've got a ton of shit to get done before this weekend when I move and that I should stop wasting my afternoons reading, getting coffee, and playing The Sims.

As to those things, I'm halfway through Ryu Murakami's 69 (kind of a poor man's Catcher in the Rye but still pretty good), I enjoy the Seattle's Best that opened up in my local Borders better than the non-Starbucks that was there before (get the girl to make you a vanilla latte), and half my pregnant lesbian couple just died in a fire that I couldn't stop because the floor in front of the phone was burning (her life partner cried as she swept up the ashes.)

That's pretty much my life. I realized earlier that I never share too much about it on here. That's why: I read books, drink coffee, and play video games. So I'm coming out now and admitting to the world what a giant loser I am. But this will change if I can just get off my ass and pack the rest of my life up. Cause I'm a New York City Boy... Christ, here goes the song again.

All aloooone in the mooooonliiiiight

The other day some guy was telling me how his earliest memory as a baby was of his father holding his head under the sink because as a baby he was stupid (as babies are) and pour rubbing alcohol into his eyes. I imagine his father was also somewhat stupid for facilitating this activity by putting a bottle of rubbing alcohol in his toy box or whatever, but I don't judge. (Not ever.)

Anyway, I thought I'd share mine. Not my rubbing alcohol (I need that) but rather

My First Memory

My first memory is of when I was a stupid baby in my walker. For those of you who might not have been as retarded as I was as a child, a walker is this contraption that you put an infant in... the baby kinda sits in the middle, and his feet dangle and touch the ground. And the thing is on wheels, so the baby is both sitting and standing and also able to totter around and bump into things. I loved my walker, and I would go around in circles all over the house just happy as a clam.

You might think "Oh, sounds like that memory happened to early for you to remember it, you probably just made it up." But no. It took me forever to learn how to walk. My mom was kind of afraid there was something wrong with me. I'm sure if I could, I would have simply expressed to her that I simply did not have anywhere I felt like going. I mean hell, I got picked up and placed wherever I needed to go! Why would I trouble myself with walking? Even today, I envy people in wheelchairs just a little bit. (A little, I said, I know nobody really wants to be in one.) So I was in my walker until I was about 15 when I could get my learner's permit.

That's why I remember it so well.

How strong I was
how young and gay
A prince of love
In every way.

Junior is bad don't read it ok?

Yesterday I thought it might be a good idea to buy and read Macaulay Culkin's new book Junior. That was pretty much the stupidest idea I've ever had. It's basically a meaningless miscellany of all too self-conscious stream of consciousness ramblings intended to paint our hero (affectionately calling himself "Junior") as some sort of creative, emotive force of modern writing. He comes off more as a crappy emo rock band that opens for a crappier emo rock band at your local Starbucks.

Just because you're random doesn't mean your work has "layers of meaning."
Just because you start every stupid list with "Dad" doesn't mean your relationship with him is somehow worth writing a book about.

This book reminded me of the journal I had at the end of high school when I was deluded enough to think that someone would find it after I died and feel inspired to publish it. Every entry was so painfully oozing with the effort to sound profound and artistic that I'm embarassed to look back on it. Reading this book made me embarassed for Macaulay. I imagine he'll look back on it and cringe if he ever grows up.

Oops, I'm getting judgmental. Time to talk about something else.... like myself. (It's all about me, you know.) Transition!

About 25 pages into Mr. Culkin's chef-d'oeuvre and after realizing the striking similarities between his drecky prose and my drivelling journal of yore, I realized that I could probably write a book. I was at Starbucks. I thought about it, and my thoughts started forming into all these little ideas. I realized "Damn! I'm so awesome!" I'm so much wittier and cooler than everyone (especially Macaulay Culkin) and my e-mails about my life that I send to old friends from college are like the highlights of their days. Then I realized that it would have to be all about me. Then I realized that nobody cares about me. Then I realized that nobody cares about half the people who write books about themselves. Then I realized I didn't care about writing a book.

So that was the end of that. Looks like I'm not writing a book, sorry.... unless there is a sudden surge of interest from at least 1,000,000 potential readers and a publishing company. Ok, if I get 1,000,000 comments on this blog entry, I'll write a book. Go!

ROAR! (That's the lion)

Wonderful news! This is my 50th entry!

Better news! I'm employed! That's right. I am the newest member of the New York Public Library, Humanities and Social Sciences Library, Monograph Cataloging Division! I'm cataloging music scores, and it's going to be great!

It's all come together so well! So I've got a cute apartment and a fantastic job. Let my sweet new life begin!

I will now except your adulation and praise.

Close encounters

Y'know how sometimes you're walking down the street and you accidentally make eye contact with some stranger, so you smile just a little bit and quickly look away? And then for some reason you peek back at the same time they peek back, so your eyes lock again and this time you notice their eyes are really pretty so you accidentally stare a second too long and then they say "Hey" so you have to say "Hey" back so you don't feel like an asshole.

And then you're thinking "Jesus, I hope he didn't think I was checking him out, he's probably some gay basher and he's running home to make fun of me to all his stupid friends in his blog like 'Wow, so this gaywad was totally checking me out on the street and flirting with me today, OMG it was so gross, who wants to play some football?'"

So then you're all "Shit, I'm being gay bashed in someone's blog." But then you realize that they are not cool enough to have a cool blog like mine so all you have to do is write about him in your own blog like "Y'know how sometimes you're walking down the street and you accidentally make eye contact with some stranger" and then assure everyone that you weren't checking him out even though he had pretty eyes because you never check out asshole gay bashers because they have ugly souls.

And then you start a blog war with him which you totally win because your blog is so much hipper and cooler and your design is the template sensation that's sweeping the nation whereas he probably has the same-old lame-old default Blogger template like everyone else. So you feel good because you won the war and reward yourself by getting a brownie and large chai at the cafe instead of just a cookie and a medium chai.

Y'know how that happens? Yeah because it just happened to me.

My stupid hat

I hate my stupid hat. Today I didn't have time to shower because I layed in bed doing nothing for and hour and a half after my alarm went off, but I also slept on my head funny so my hair was REALLY weird and I couldn't fix it, so I'm wearing my hat today.

My friend Kim used to like it when I wore my hat because it meant I was dirty. I don't wear it anymore though because even when I'm dirty, my hair still usually looks ok. But not today, so I'm wearing my stupid hat, and it's red and I can only wear it backwards or it shows off how big my head is. Since I wear it backwards and my hair sticks out of it in the front and on the sides, and since I am girly and gay and have no testosterone so I never developed a masculine jaw or broad shoulders, my hat makes me look like a 10-year-old.

And since I look like a 10-year-old, I pretty much just wanna act like a 10-year-old and eat pizza and not do work and sit around and talk about whatever stupid crap 10-year-old boys talk about. And I want to play video games.

So I'm going to leave work early because I've sat here doing nothing the whole time anyway. And I'm going to go get the cold pizza out of the fridge at my other job and eat it, and I'm gonna go home to start packing for my trip, but really, I'm probably just going to play the Sims and read my crappy book. (I read a lot as a 10-year-old, so it's ok.) And then I'm going to get a shamrock shake and drink the whole thing.

And then I'm going to take a shower and get dressed in something that is not my hat and this t-shirt and my red shoes so I can look like a 21-year-old just in time to go out and get drunk for St. Patrick's Day. And I'll hang my stupid red hat on the wall and let it wait another six months until I need another lame excuse to be irresponsible and fat and to relive the glorious days of my youth, which are pretty similar to the glorious days of my adulthood except I feel the need to blog about them.

I love my stupid hat.

The Da Vinci Code: Yet to be decoded

My boss lent it to me, so despite my avoidance of it for all this time, I am actually going to read The Da Vinci Code.

It's not the popularity that has heretofore dissuaded me from reading the novel. I mean hello, biggest Harry Potter fan ever! Rather, it was the popularity mixed with how it's taken so seriously. The intellectual elitist in me immediately recoiled when it noticed all the publicity that was attached to a book everyone was reading (i.e. popular fiction.) I'm one of those awful people who hates seeing James Patterson, Stephen Coonts, and Tom Clancy mixed into the 'Literature' section at Borders. So all the attention The Da Vinci Code was getting pretty much made me think "Wow, this will probably turn into a Tom Hanks movie," and I immediately dismissed it. Ok, maybe I didn't really use Tom Hanks' name.

But now I have it, and I want to see what all the fuss is about. Hell, maybe it will be more than cheap entertainment given far too much billing. I'm not getting my hopes up, but I know good writing when I see it. It's my job.

Flipping through the book, however, the first thing I noticed was that none of the chapters are more than 5 pages long. Dan, my man, I hope this isn't some cheap way to make this fast-paced, action-packed thriller seem more... fast-paced. Also, there's italics on almost every page. I can use italics here because this is a retarded blog. You're writing a book. Italics is lame. You'd better have a good reason. I guess I'll find out this afternoon.

So here we go. I'd say I'm approaching this with an open mind, but my full Jewish nose needs no more length. And if you think I'm a judgmental asshole for talking shit about popular things being taken too seriously when they're actually crap and also about popular fiction in general, you are correct! Well done. Five points to Gryffindor.

'My New Apartment' Virtual Walking Tour

WELCOME READERS! Are you ready for thrills and spills? Well you've come to the right place! Presenting a very special high-definition stereophonic event:

The 'My New Apartment' Virtual Walking Tour presented in Super Mondo-Cool-Vision 3-D!!!!

Here we are in sunny New York City looking at the gargantuan facade of My New Apartment!

While the sweeping walls soar to the heavens, the fire escape snakes to the earth, conveying the architect's vision of "bridging the worlds". He is quoted as saying "The home is like the great beyond, a place of comfort and security. My design embodies this, but also provides the viewer with a sense that one can easily return to the mortal world, a place whose hustle and bustle and stress make the home an even more idyllic place to return."

Now look both ways, it's time to approach.


Notice the stalwart stone pillars valiantly supporting this magnificent structure with brave, yet inviting confidence. The fire escape ladder peeking hello from the top is just one example of the vigorous safety and security measures the managers of My New Apartment have implemented for my sense of well-being. And the green door evokes comforting images of forest life, transforming the harsh city into a welcoming natural place where both man and beast will feel right at home.

And heeeeeeere we goooooooooooo!



Let's go inside, shall we?


Ahhh, here we are! Having just walked through the front door, we are present with a view of the menagerie, future home of the fabulous creatures that will live in My New Apartment. Everyone say hi to Tinkerbell! She's taking measurements for the unicorn pen. So far, we also plan to install a litter box and a hanging plant to make the animals feel right at home. Off to the left is the stunning master bathroom, which we will visit presently. The window at the end of this hallway provides a spectacular view of the building behind, providing a place to sit and contemplate the world while also minimizing street noise. Directly to our left is the rest of the apartment, but come, let us visit the bathing facilities first. Walk this way.


Smile! The Lady of the Mirror wishes to take your picture, which can be purchased later at our gift shop for a modest $10. The sink you see here was handed down from Alexander, and it spouts clean water smelling faintly of fresh strawberries, for it comes from the bubbling springs of Lothlorien. You may have seen Lothlorien in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies, which were shot on-location in that mystical paradise. This water cleans and refreshes the body like nothing else in all the land. "But one cannot bathe in the sink", you say? Ah yes. Behold the shower!


This shower has been newly installed by the gnomish plumbing specialists from Kuala Lumpur. As you can see, it has been fitted with an automatic temperature adjuster, which scans your neurons and rains down Lothlorien Water of the perfect temperature to suit your mood and state of alertness. Now back through the menagerie, everyone, it's time to see the rest of this beautiful apartment!


What you see standing before you is the outstanding wall that provides this living establishment with all of its charm. This dividing wall separates what would be a studio into sections, giving the illusion of many many rooms for the price of one! To the left is the master bedroom, which we will visit in a moment. I would like to draw your attention to the right side of the wall. This is the library: a cozy nook perfect for a cushy armchair, a soft lamp, and the shelves that will carry the keys to your imagination! Rivalled only by the library in the Walt Disney animated feature Beauty and the Beast, we are confident that this collection will grow to match the Beast's impressive collection of mostly half-rate authors. (You didn't hear this from me, but the Beast just can't get enough of Tom Clancy and Mary Higgins Clarke. He thinks slipping off the dust jackets make his collection look "classic". What a maroon.)


And we have arrived in the master bedroom suite. The hi-tech radiator pictured provides cozy sleeping temperature, slowly lulling the tenant to dreamland with increasing warmth. The attractive window bars keep out prowlers and so called "Prince Charmings" who may wish to climb the fire escape to kiss you in the night, but they also swing open so that you may lean out as your lover sings "Maria" from the alley below. The narrow space requires a small bed so that you and your lover will have no choice but to spend the night in passionate embrace! Ah, love! We have more stop to make! Let's go to the gourmet kitchen!


My, what a surprise! It's my fellow tour guide Alexis directing another band of fearless explorers like yourselves! Everyone wave to Alexis! HI, ALEXIS! Well, as you know, this is the charming and unique kitchen facility. Seem small? Well it is! The appliances have been donated by Willy Wonka, and they employ state-of-the-art technology to magically adjust the size of your food while it is cooking! You can prepare cookies with a teaspoon of flour in the tiny stove, but when they come out, you can open your very own Mrs. Field's franchise from the privacy of your own home! One bagel pizza feeds a frat party! A cornish hen is a Thanksgiving feast for twelve! Save money and mess with Willy Wonka kitchen appliances, available exclusively at Sears!

And this concludes our tour, my friends! Unfortunately, our shot of the open common space (a ballroom modelled off the one in Buckingham Palace) has been stolen by the evil Witch-Queen Lucrecia. That room was the vantage point from which the previous three pictures was shot, and without it, you cannot witness the apartment in all of its splendor. I leave you now with two shots from the street corner as you go on your way. We hope you enjoyed your tour. Please exit to the right and remember to leave your valuables in the bins where they have been stowed. Goodnight, and good luck.


My new grocery store.


The street corner I will see every morning.

Thanks for coming!

Success breeds success

Rock on, friends. Rock on. I got the apartment. I'm moving to New York. It's officially official, and I'm beyond excited. I will be living on the Upper East Side on 79th and York.

My excitement may be hard to gauge due to the utter lack of exclamation points in the previous paragraph, but I assure you that is only because I have eaten too many cookies today so my stomach hurts. Also, I just noticed that I have a cavity. Luckily, it seems there is a dentist on York between 76th and 77th, so I can walk there and stop at Starbucks when I go to get my filling.

Anyway, that's all I really had to say: that I'm moving to New York, and you're not. I'm thrilled that this worked out, the application process was a total bitch. It's only thanks to my parents that this is happening, so a huge shout out to them. Anyone wanna buy a crappy couch?

The place is a little studio with a tiny kitchen. There's this weirdo wall that sections off the place a little, so it gives the illusion of rooms! (There's an exclamation point.) So I'm going to have a bedroom, a foyer with a chandelier imported from France, a library (actually a converted smoking parlor), a ballroom cum entertainment complex, and a menagerie (the end of the hallway to the bathroom where there will be a hanging plant and the litter box.) For those 3rd graders in my audience: Hee hee, I said "cum entertainment".

In addition, I'm close to everything! It's a jaunty stroll to the laundromat and grocery store (and a flower shop, I guess, I don't know why my mom needed to tell me that.) It's a slightly less jaunty stroll to the subway... more of a leisurely walk. And it's sort of a lugubrious trek to Central Park, but it's still close enough that I can go every Sunday and walk around and read in the sun. I am well pleased.

You are all required to visit me and bring one (1) housewarming gift. I dislike white wine. If you cannot visit, you are instead required to tell me about two (2) places you know about in the City: restaurants, clubs, cafes, performance spaces, anything. For those of you that actually live in NYC, the requirements are more rigid, and I will discuss them with you on an individual basis.

That is all. You may now shower me with kudos and well-wishes as I enter this new super-hip stage in my life.

Transamerica

Greetings, gentle readers! Come, sit and attend to another superficial movie review that will not help you determine the merits of the film but should provide a welcome distraction from your dull work day and all those other boring shitty blogs.

This week's selection is Transamerica, a heartwarming (and at times pantswarming) tale of a male-to-female transsexual who flies across the country after finding out she fathered a son during a college fling. The resulting road trip back finds the two bonding and blah blah blah, go read a summary somewhere else.

Ok, first off, Felicity Huffman was unbelievable in this role. Before seeing the movie, I couldn't think why they wouldn't get a man or an actual transsexual to play the part, but now I don't care because Felicity was better. It's too bad the Oscar for having a funny voice went to Philip Seymour Hoffman (though he deserved it too, ok?) because as big a fan as I am of Reese Whitherspoon and as amazing as she was in Walk the Line, Ms. Huffman deserved that award.

It should also have won Best Make-Up because they made her look really ugly!

Also, they need a new Oscar category: Hottest Child-turned-20-something Actor who Gets Naked On Screen and Plays a Gay Character. They need that category and every year, they need to give it to Kevin Zegers because I want him to play the same character for the rest of his life, and I want him to be praised. He's totally hot, I can't even handle it. Unfortunately, a Google image search doesn't have any naked pics, so you're just gonna have to go see the movie over and over again. You get to see his wang.

So ok, but the movie was really good regardless. I laughed, I cried, I drooled all over my therapist... so go see it.

SEE Felicity Huffman's fake penis! HEAR the painful-to-listen-to faux voice Ms. Huffman created! LAUGH as Fionnula Flanagan is way too tan and hilarious and steals the show!

Transamerica!

Ignore this rant

I got a call saying "Oh, so the blown-up copy of your driver's license that you went to all that trouble to make and fax to us as part of your apartment application was too dark. Now we want you to scan it and send it to us by e-mail. This will delay the application process, I hope for your sake we can keep holding the apartment for that long, CHUMP!"

What the hell? You have ALL of my information, jerkface! You see that I have a job lined up (which is a lie, my dad's boss is pretending to hire me and pay me lots of money to appease the apartment people) and all this money in my account and a guarantor who makes like a billion dollars (not really). But you're what? Afraid I'm too UGLY to live in New York City? Just how is my license picture SOOOOO important???

Oooh, maybe I'm a terrorist and that's why the picture being dark was a problem. If you can just make sure I'm white... because who's ever heard of a white terrorist, what a ridiculous idea!

I'll show you my license... TO KILL! I hate everybody, nobody better tell me that people are nice because I know they suck real hard!

The worst part, though, was when we offered the apartment complex to pay the entire year's rent right then. My dad was standing there with his checkbook because he's the nicest dad ever (better than your dad), and he said "I'll pay you up front for an entire year, ok, what exactly is this application for? Just give me the damn apartment!" Except he was nice. And yet no, they say they need to consider it. Fine! Bureacracy. Whatever. Now bureacracy wants to make sure I look good.

I'm just sorry I didn't smile.

Brokeback Mountain: No, the book

I just sat down and read "Brokeback Mountain", y'know the short story the movie was based on... the reason it won adapted screenplay instead of regular screenplay. Yes, (moving) pictures can be fun, but one really ought to look at the nice words... especially in this case.

It's a beautiful story, and it has that subtle execution and understanding of the human animal (as much as I hate that stupid term) that I always fall for in good literature. I, for one, don't need another overdone love story with sweeping music and slow motion bullshit field of daisies "I'll never let go, Jack, I'll never let go" crap that people seem to eat up so much. Basically, it's got everything that made the movie awesome, except it's made out of words, and the perfect ones at that.

Despite all the similarity, though, it sits a lot differently in my head than the movie did, partially because of the pacing and partially because books are just more intimate by their nature. It took me less than an hour to read, and most of that time was spent reading the last sentence over and over again no less than twenty-five times with tears in my eyes only to be finally snapped out of it by my cell phone going all "BUZZ BUZZ! COMMUNICATION! DAILY LIFE! SOCIAL, STRESS, AAAAAAAAH!" I hate my cell phone ring.

So go read it because I'm not saying any more. The way in which this book resonated with me is really personal, and like all things personal in my life, I can't really express it because it's too abstract. So I'm gonna go back and read the ending a second time so I can sit in it longer. And you're going to go to your local library (or just buy the damn thing for $10), and you're going to read it, and you're going to think it's special too. Now go.... unless you're my friend Billy who's my houseguest for the week, in which case it's sitting on my coffee table right in front of you, so read it (it's short) and remember not to go into the secret room with the cat box, and it's probably not a good idea to open the fridge either.

Making faces

Ok, so basically I have nothing at all to talk about so I figured I'd show everyone what I look like because mostly I think I'm pretty amazing. But as a fun twist on the "post random pictures of myself" theme, I'm going to show you who myheritage.com thinks I look like. They have this nifty little tool where you upload a picture of your face, and they compare it to celebrities. I made my comparisons into a handy jpeg using my mad photoshop skillz. It took me a long time because first I had to crop and resize my picture, and then I had to copy all of them into one long one. I'm so good at photoshop I can hardly even handle it.



See? I look exactly like Colin Firth, River Phoenix, Katie Holmes, and Kevin Costner. The first picture is me, but I wouldn't be surprised if you thought it was also a picture of River Phoenix because we look so much alike. One time my mom came up to me while I was making cereal and she said "OMG RIVER PHOENIX CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH???" and then I said "No" and she said "Oh, it's just you, nevermind, I didn't want it anyway."

Another picture I uploaded said I looked like Anne Frank. I guess it's because all Jewish people look the same.

Obligatory Oscar post

Everyone hurry up and complain about how Brokeback Mountain didn't get the Oscar because Hollywood is so homophobic! Make sure you mention that it got all those guild awards so omg it should totally have won and I'm so mad INJUSTICE INJUSTICE! What's it take for gay people to be noticed in Hollywood???

Shut up. Ok, thanks.

Brokeback Mountain was a brilliant movie. Why? Because of it's brilliant direction, brilliant screenplay, and brilliant performances. The direction and screenplay were both honored. Oh, and it was also a great movie because it was progressive and all that. That's great. Maybe I have to recheck my Swahili-Esperanto-English dictionary, but I don't think "Best Picture" translates to "Most Poignant Social Commentary" in any language. And even if it did, Crash would probably still have won.

Don't get me wrong, I was rooting for Brokeback to win just as much as the next I'm-so-gay person. It really really had a shot, too. I don't know why it didn't. Maybe it was politics, or maybe (dare I say it?) Crash was actually a better movie. I don't know, I'm ignorant about film. The point is, I'm about to go check my blog subscriptions, and I'm terrified of the outcry I anticipate hearing from my "Gay Blogs" folder. I already read one entry like that today, which is pretty much what prompted this.

So it did't win. Don't act like they crucified Gay Jesus. Everyone still recognizes that movie was amazing even without the "heavier than it looks on TV" statue sitting on the producer's mantle. The future of the gay rights movement doesn't ride on this movie's recognition. We can't take the world by one gigantic duststorm. And don't forget, the Academy doesn't share your agenda, and they don't owe you anything.

That's right, I said agenda. The Gay Agenda is real, it's just not what the assholes think.

Ok, I'm done. Now I want to talk about everyone's dresses, but I'm going to do that with my boss instead of with you guys.

But before I go, I want to encourage everyone to donate to the American Association for Cancer Research. I hear they're investigating that horrible malignant tumor on Charlize Theron's gown, and I for one would like to see a cure.

Biohazard

I'm about to share some photos. Because of the graphic nature of what you are about it see, it is suggested that you stab your eyeballs with a pokey fork before viewing.





This sink is real. My friend lives in a dorm even though he is getting his PhD. (I guess it's cheaper if you can stand it.) Between every two rooms is a bathroom with a shower, toilet, and side-by-side his and hers sinks. This is the "his", the sink belonging to my friend's suitemate.

I'm not sure what the yellowish green stuff is. I can only imagine that this guy's cousin Slimer was visiting for the weekend.

Although it goes without saying, I'm going to say it. This is really disgusting. Can people really wake up in the morning, look at their sink like this, and think "Ahhh! A fresh start to a new day!" All I can think is "Disease."

I wish I had taken a shot of the toilet before my friend cleaned it. I never saw that Eddie-Murphical abortion, but in the previews there's a scene where he's apparently looking at shit on the ceiling. I thought the physics of that were impossible, but apparently my grasp of high school science is slipping. Have you ever seen human excrement on the underside of a toilet seat? On along the outside face of the bowl? Because I have.

This is an example of what I like to call "heterotoxicity." No gay man would allow his bathroom to look like that. It's a disturbing phenomenon among college boys. Heterotoxicity makes me somewhat glad I live in a big old bubble of sanitary gay.

Although an all-gay universe would be a horrible place for anyone to live, heterotoxicity is pushing me to consider pulling out my genocide diary and making some sketches.

My heart goes out to my friend who must face this every morning. His sink is spotless. I hope you all send him your support as well. Here he is being nice to me:

Billy-Jean: i like it when you copy and paste our AIM conversations into your blog

Too Hotty: Good.

Billy-Jean: it makes me feel good

Too Hotty: Say something funny, you'll be featured again.

Billy-Jean: i really like hanging out with you.....i wish we'd've made it a point to do it more often earlier on

Too Hotty: I know. :-(

Billy-Jean: you're one of the most well-adjusted people in Bloomington...going to be impossible to find a comparable hanging-out partner

Too Hotty: that's so sweet of you to say

Billy-Jean: just being honest

Too Hotty: but it won't get you featured in my blog

Denied

I would like to announce that I have unsubscribed to Santino Rice's blog in my aggregator. When every post is an unprotected orgy of self-importance and vanity, it eventually stops being special.

I just thought you all should know.

Are you being careful?

Oh my God, my mother just made reference to me "hooking up".

Mom: then keep your phone on and with you next sunday

Me: Right, because I might be out having actual fun on a Sunday night in the Bible belt.

Mom: you never know
Mom: you might hook up with a blue collar cool car mechanic
Mom: with no teeth

Me: I kinda do know.
Me: And I won't.

Mom: hahaha

Me: Yuck.

Ignoring the fact that my mother thinks I'm too good to get with anyone blue collar, I have to admit that I'm weirded out that my mother not only acknowledges, but condones that I have sex. Gay sex. In the what? In the butt.

Now I knew she knew. I just always assumed she had that Mother's Denial barrier up, thinking her perfect son hadn't started fucking, especially because I barely talk about guys because I never go on dates except maybe one time and then they don't call me back because they're mean and I hate them. So we've just torn down a wall and the landscape of Berlin looks quite a bit different now.

After the above snippet, we got into a conversation about my future lifemate, who she still insists be Jewish, probably more out of Jewish Mother Tradition than any other reason.

Mom: Jewish boys are nice.

Me: So are Christian boys.

Mom: i've never met one

All I insist is that I never use the word "lifemate" again.

Unrelated:

I says: I can't wait for flip-flop season... which will be short this year because I refuse to wear them in NYC.

Keith-friend: why?
Keith-friend: people wear flip-flops there too

I says: Because steam comes out of the sewers.

Keith-friend: eww, gross

I says: I know.
I says: I'll probably never expose any skin.

Keith-friend: how cool :-)
Keith-friend: you'll get used to the squalor... it's good for you, builds up antibodies and all that

I says: I know, it'll be great! I'll be this super-soldier immune to germ warfare.

Keith-friend: either that or you'll catch something from some dirty foreigner and your ears will fall off
Keith-friend: but you could tell people "yeah, it's the new hot thing in new york, the no-ears look"

I am chic.