All right, so I am broke, have still yet to pay my rent, might have been able to before leaving if I had not spent the equivalent of near half of it on a pair of shoes by a brand that is a little passe these days, a little four years ago, but that doesn't matter, or it might at some point, but yeah whatever - when I get back into town, am buying a new DVD/VCR player since the heat killed (my theory) our DVD player. And I just looked at Videology's inventory to see that they have some older Bruce LaBruce movies on DVD now. Oh Shit! Gay art porn viewing party at my house next week! They have Skin Flick and Hustler White, but no Super Eight and a Half. But that's why the VCR combo is a must to rent all that from somewhere on VHS, to be able to see the Warhol movies that Reel Life only has on VHS, and the old Ross McElwee documentaires that Christopher told me I could get at TLA(?). Yay for consumerism! Yay for shoes without holes in them! Yay for train rides and laundry and not crying and not dying!

PS - I just learned that Hustler White is loosely based on Sunset Boulevard. STFU! I want to watch these tonight, man. Seriously, Raspberry Reich is one of the most amazing movies ever for a radical queer boy to watch (and so I hope all you queers have seen it), and it had me inspired for weeks afterward. I cannot wait to finally see his other work.

PPS - There was the most gorgeous pair of boat shoes (green and white! no really, they were awesome!) at Century 21 for fifty dollars today that I did not get. Because I have no money. But really, that probably would not have stopped me if summer was not practically over, and thus, also almost over is the appropriateness of wearing boat shoes.

The weather looks pretty nice outside. I have yet to step into it, had really wanted to go to the beach today, in these last days of August, because really going to the beach in September just seems totally differnt than going in August, but I can't go today because I am seeing the regular today at three. And after that, I guess I am going to go shopping and see if I can not find something nice to wear to my mom's wedding so that I won't have to make my mom take me shopping when I get home, that I am sure that is not what she wants to be doing in those couple days leading up to her wedding with all her family in town.

I could wait till I get home and that would save me lots of money I don't have, but I feel like I should try to pretend I am an adult and don't need my mom to take me shopping. I am getting stressed about money because it's that time of the month again, where my phone bill is due, where my rent is due and to add to those normal stressful events, there is this clothes bill I may rack up today. And to make matters worse, our landlord actually wants our rent on time this month. I know, most of you think that is a given, but really we are always a couple weeks late in paying our rent, but the scary grandma is home now and came upstairs the other day to tell us she wants the rent on the 1st, and well, this is also the month that we resign our lease, so it would be good to pay it on time - plus Ada (the grandma) is fucking terrifying and I don't want her yelling at me. And so yeah, this would mean I would need to have all this money by tomorrow since I am leaving on Wednesday.

I really think I would be able to get all this taken care of if I weren't leaving on Wednesday. I would have had a couple more days to do sex work, would not be dropping money on clothes I am probably only going to wear once. Oh yeah, and our electric bill has had a turn off notice since June 22. So that's another bill that needs to get taken care of ASAP.

And yesterday, there were so many blown opportunities to make money. If I had taken on all four dates scheduled yesterday, I would have made 650 and not be stressing right now, and would have had an insanely overworked penis, but the first date, I totally messed up by waiting outside the wrong address forever until I realized I was an idiot and read the address in my pocket and realized I was on the wrong block. By the time I got there, I was already half an hour late, so scratch that 200.

So instead I went and saw the guy I saw on Wednesday again. I came home, totally ravenous for a spicy pork burrito, checked my email and this guy I had seen a while ago wanted me to come over and get a rimjob. At this point it was already 11 pm and I was hungry as all hell, so I told him I was too tired and went to get a burrito. I ate the burrito and promptly passed out in bed, glutted, with the lights on, still dressed, contacts still in. At two, I was woken up by a phone call from the regular which I let my voicemail pick up. I listened to it today and he had wanted me to come over last night. I checked my email this morning after listening to that message and rimjob guy had wrote me back last night and told me that if I was tired, he had crystal. I rolled my eyes and told myself that I need a real job.

Awesome! Fall is essentially here with the gallery season starting in less than two weeks. Douglas Kelley sent out a big DKS list with lots of listings, so many all in one night, and it is here, fall and gallery hopping and spending my Thursday nights smashed. But this also means that I have gone through summer and done really nothing of note to speak of besides engaged ins some new sexual practices.

I am a loser and see a conflict of interests and need to find someone with a VCR or get one myself because September 8th is the big gallery night and also the start of the new season of The O.C., and I have already told myself that real social interaction will always supercede television, but I need to see it and surely, I can find someone to tape it. Jamie? But September 8th, you and I have a date, Bellwether is having an opening as well as lots of other galleries I like. And Marcel Dzama has another show at David Zwirner that opens that night. Fun fun fun. Aren't you so excited to wander the streets of Chelsea blitzed as the sun is setting and as the weather gets cooler? It will be so awesome.

I know need to go the Strand and ask people, or go to Housing Works and look through their proofs, but I doubt I would find it at either place, it being surely popular, but if any of you guys have a proof of it or come across one, you should let me read it. I could do it really quickly, a day - I just cannot wait till October for Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. Help a nerd out.

never stuck around long enough for a one night stand

Niki told me that this is not news when I exclaimed to her on the phone painfully hungover but still happy with life, "I am boy crazy!" And no, it is not news. Most of you, if you know me at all, know this.

Seriously, all I want to do is flirt with boys all day long, all night long - until the sun comes up. The number of people I made out with last night is pretty outrageous. The night started off on such a bad foot with an insane cab ride where I thought we were going to die (seriously) to get to this party before the open bar closed. We got there to the Frying Pan with a horrible guestlist debacle that was made more stressful with Niki being Niki and pushing her way in anyway, dragging us through this back entry way and eventually losing me and her other friend. The two of us decided it was lame there, not worth getting beat up by scary bouncers to listen to bad music and hang out with meatheads. So we left, and perhaps it was this, me wanting to correct that, erase it from the night's memory why I totally raged last night.

I went and met Greg and his friend, Christina, at Orchard Bar where I drank a few drinks to begin to erase that awful experience and they were playing really awesome old r and b there that made me so happy. Boys II Men! Fuck yeah! I commented to Greg about how happy I would be if they played En Vogue. And with each song that came on, I kept hoping it would be En Vogue, but it never happened, or at least not while we were there. They all left to go to Lit and I followed and stayed at Lit for all of about two hot minutes because that place makes me want to slash my wrists. Some bars just put me on edge and that is one of them. So I left Greg and company and walked up to 14th Street to meet Ethan who was taking a very long time to get into Manhattan. Waiting for him, trying to keep my momentum going which was crashing in a major way, I ate a slice of pizza and finally Ethan showed up and we went to Hanger Bar and downed a couple of dollar whisky and cokes before going to the Cock.

I used all those drink tickets I had gotten a while ago and oh my god, just one of those drinks would have been enough to knock me out had I not also already had five drinks before arriving there. The bartender poured basically a full cup of awful rum and then added a splash of coke. Wowsers! Three of those, and yeah, that's why I was a little out of control there at the Cock. And sometimes, last night, the Cock is my favorite bar in New York. I have some friends that don't get it, that don't feel the excitement of the place, or think it is a sleazy bar full of dirty old men (which it is, but which is also what makes it awesome).

The sexual energy that is gathered in that room is pretty electric and within minutes of being there, I felt the pricklings in my fingers and loved it so much. The Cock is a bar with no pretenstions, occasionally some, but I also think this is why some people don't love it - that they don't know how to behave in a setting where people don't really care about small talk or what you do or what bands you know. Everyone there has their sex eyes on when they look at you and it is so amazing. So maybe there was this one geriatric who kept staring at me all night and that was kind of annoying but not even that much because there were others, cuter ones, non-geriatric ones.

Everytime I went to the urinal, I ended up talking to the person next to me and staring at each other's penises and then zipping up and making out right outside the bathroom. No, seriously, this happened three times - everytime I went to the bathroom. And then there were countless other boys that I ended up making out with. One of those boys, was this really cute nice boy who kept following me around and I guess liked me, but he was too nice and too in my way because all I wanted to do was swallow every boy's face in the bar. I felt bad about blowing him off, but come on, you are at the Cock. Our making out was originally interupted by these two guys walking past us who then started talking to us and no joke, about ten seconds after I quit making out with the boy that liked me, I started making out with one of those two guys, this guy, Todd, a teacher in NY, originally from Ohio. No self control whatsoever!

And at some point because the gods were smiling on me, over the speakers, I heard the opening call of En Vouge's "Never Gonna Get It." I was so excited, beyond excited and danced so happy.

And yeah, then as you already know, there was some backroom action which I am not going to tell you about but will tell you how it started to explain why I love the Cock, how sex is only a brush on the shoulders away. This boy walked past me, said hi. I started to make out with him. He stopped it after about ten seconds and told me to follow him. I did and he sat down on a bench in the back and unzipped my pants.

And while I was being naughty, the lights were turned on so bright and they said everyone out because it was four. Out in front of the bar, I saw Todd talking to someone. Because I was drunk, I either didn't notice or didn't care that this someone was hitting on Todd, doing that whole shuffle before heading home together. I just started talking to Todd, at some point gave him my number, told him I was going to Punjabi and then I realized that I was major cock blocking and that this someone was not looking at me with sex eyes, but with death eyes. Todd told me and this someone that he would come with me to Punjabi and we walked there talking about something or other and I kept looking at his serious brown eyes so happy to be on the street side by side with this boy.

We ate food and chatted on a stoop for a decent time about something or other again - and again, it is not really being all that important because I was so in love with looking at this boy. I really love it when social interaction happens easily and there is no anxiousness, that things come easily and you can hold a stare and not be weird or not averting your eyes. I bought glue traps at the bodega while he used the ATM so he could catch a cab. On the corner, saying good-bye, I was losing my walk signal - it turned to a blinking hand and there are these things that make good-byes less awkward, easier, a blinking hand telling me I have to cross Houston now or wait till the next time the light changes - and so I kissed him goodbye and scampered across the street to the subway so happy.

OMG! My dick in a couple people's mouths and many more people's hands. I don't know if any of my crushes saw this. One large, very long dick in my mouth. More about all of this tomorrow. God, I love the Cock. But, my crushes. So, this one, Todd, obviously did not see - hung out with him after the bar closed, got Indian food and talked for a while on some one's stoop. He invited me to his house and I said no because I am lame and did not want to have to worry about getting home from Crown Heights. Why can't this amazing boy live in my nieghborhood or Manhattan at least, and not Crown Heights? We are supposed to hang out though and I am pretty excited. Yes, more tomorrow. Did I mention Staten Island, various bars, that horrible Frying Pan, Greg (!), new pants, my sluttiness? Oh well, I will do so tomorrow. Maybe.

PS - As I was just gnawing on a block of cheese, I giggled because I remembered that last night I was doing the same thing during an episode of Seinfeld, where George Costanza was talking about how happy he is to be single and living by himself, that he was sitting around in boxers eating cheese. And sometimes I identify a little too much with George I think. Certainly not a good thing, but man, sometimes, he gets things so right.

George Costanza: I was free and clear. I was living the dream. I was stripped to the waist eating a block of cheese the size of a car battery.

Jerry: Before we go any further, I'd just like to point out how disturbing it is that you equate eating a block of cheese with some sort of bachelor paradise.

Last night, I had a pretty awesome orgasm and pretty good sex leading up to it with some dude in Chelsea. It had been a while since I had seen someone (okay, maybe only a week, but it felt like a while), and sometimes I think it is so absurd that I get paid for this - surely, I should be paying to have someone pleasure me solely, for them to give me nice long head and suck on various other things, that not only do I get pleasured in a way that I probably never will outside the bounds of hookerdom, not having to reciprocate, but then they also pay me.

So, that coffee I drank yesterday morning fucked me up majorly. Afterward, I called Greg, deciding I was going to go to No. 1 Chinese and got insanely giddy about it and called various other people telling them to come, none of whom wanted to come. And for some reason, these couple people saying no or not picking up their phone made me really sad and socially anxious and I took a shower blasting the one Organ song I have on a mix CD on repeat, and got giddy again. There were some highs and lows last night and they kept coming without any gradual blurring between the two - I think this is what you might call a manic episode. And then I texted Greg telling him I was not going and went to the booze store, got a really cheap bottle of Cab that I will never get again. Cab is so nice normally. I have even had good, cheap bottles - but this was so not what I wanted - next time I will spend the extra two dollars and get, if not a great bottle, at least, a decent wine.

And because I wanted to go all the way, I went to Hana and got some nice cheese, some crackers, some grape leaves, and a thing of Toberlerone. It was so cliche all the stuff I had in my hands, the wine and cheese and chocolate - I was convinced that the guy behind me in line thought I was a cheesy romantic on my way to go meet a date or something, but no, I wanted to tell him, this stuff is for no one but myself, all me, goddamnit. And I walked home through the chilly air, consumed quite a bit of each of the decadences while watching episodes of Sex and the City I had just watched the night before because everything is broken, my CD player, my DVD player - and really, I don't care and enjoyed it more than I should have.

Even with the wine, it took me a long time to fall asleep and it was a sweaty, nerve suppressing effort to finally get there, and as soon I was there, in dreamland, securley asleep, a call from my new neighbor whose number I didn't recognize at two something. I hit silence and tried to go back to sleep. But she called three more times. Finally, I answered the phone and she told me that she couldn't open the front door and had been out there for half an hour trying to get it open. I growled, told her to hold on, and marched downstairs to show her how you turn a key in a doorhandle before going back upstairs, and going to my bed, but not to sleep, not for a long time despite my best efforts and my frequent cursings of the Polish girl who couldn't open our front door and thus disturbed my much willed sleep. Okay, so it probably wasn't the coffee or the Polish girl responsible for my not being able to fall asleep. You probably knew that.

***************************

Also, I want to see Belle and Sebastain a lot, but $55?! I mean, I guess, Beck is playing also, but I am not in 11th grade any longer, and no longer think he's the shit, especially not at that price. And how come I didn't hear of this festival until today - has it not been publicized?

waiting to cum

Two more things because I know I have become one of those persons lately that is updating about anything that happens, but I am unemployed and I don't know what to do with myself most of the time and really, I can't take today. It is too gorgeous. I don't remember what the two things are, can remember one, and this story I am about to tell you is not that one. But I just talked to my aunt (my dad's sister) on the phone about him dying, and she was telling me how he is contacting everyone basically saying good-byes and is incredibly at peace, and the whole time she was talking to me I was looking at the sun drenched ginkgo leaves outside my window and thinking that things are so beautiful, and hear not in my eyes, but in my ears is this news of the approaching death of my father and I can't focus or I can, and say it with Wallace Stevens all together now:

Death is the mother of beauty.

And maybe one of those things was coffee and bad news and family drama is the mother of nervousness, of being on the verge of wanting to scream at the top of your lungs if only your roommates boyfriend was not asleep in the bedroom right next to you, but I want to scream damnit! I am a mess, in every way.

And some boy that I met (this is number 2 of things I was going to talk about) that night I ran away from Metropolitan on Friday just wrote me saying:

Hey Charlie we met at Metro Friday night.
Cant tell if you are too much or just enough
I wanna hang out w/you

And I hate how you can't talk honestly or passionately with a gay boy without one of you thinking flirting is happening. I was really stoned that night and talking to him about something or other and being unrestrained, and I got nervous and could tell that he was interested in me and sort of found someone else to talk to. And I think his boldness is cute, his comment about me being "too much", but that's about all I find cute. And everyone's eyes are always looking elsewhere, never at the thing looking at them. And of course, I am not interested in him, and of course, none of the countless (although I did list ten for Paul) ones I like are interested in me and our eyes are wandering and God, my mind is today, and I am listening to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, because I am a Pitchfork slut and because they are fucking amazing and the music, that David Byrne yelp, and the coffee, let's not forget the coffee, and the weather, the slight breeze, the fucking blue sky, man, my eyes are watering and I want to cry but I can never climax, can never jizz these tears.

Shit! I am an space cadet of the highest order. I just talked to my mom and she asked me if I was coming down on Wednesday or Tuesday. And I said on Wednesday, meaning September 14 for her wedding on the 16th. And then she made some comment about how she was excited to see me next week. And I said "Whoah! Next week? What do you mean? You're wedding's not next week. And apparently it is and for some reason I have had the wrong date in my head for months. So I am actually going to Virginia a week from today, terribly broke, still without having gotten anything to wear to this wedding yet. Yikes! Luckily, I don't have to worry about that forty dollar bus ticket though since my mom offered to buy me a train ticket. Sweet! Last time I rode a train back and forth between DC, I was reading Proust also. Or Sebald. I can't remember and that type of difference doesn't really matter I think, because it is that certain daydreamy type of writing I will be reading as I pass pretty and ugly things and travel between two periods of my life.

I got stoned and went for a long walk to look at the clouds and catch the end of the sunset. I felt awkward for a while at that park, more self aware than normal of my oddness as a single at this place that couples come to in such numbers. Single people need to observe sunsets just as much as anyone else, and I have never watched a sunset with a boy in that way, and I don't think I ever could because I am not that person and would not be able divorce myself from observing the act as cliche. Anyway, I tried leaving voice messages for myself on my phone but couldn't figure out how to do it. As I was walking as I was having all these brilliant thoughts and wanted to record them. So I sent myself text messages. They took a while and by the time I finished typing the message, I sort of lost the focus of whatever it was I originally wanted to record. I sent two to myself, and yes, thankfully, I understand what I was trying to say and I hope it continues that way until tomorrow when I am totally sober.

7:57 - Heated minivan youth friend's isolated scent

8:18 - Kids being scared, scream into laugh, inborn association bt violence and fun

Even though it is still August, the ginkgo leaves outside my window are already gearing up, at the edges you can start to see a yellowing, maybe just the slightest fray, but there, nonetheless - and I am excited about change. And it was still pretty hot out today, I know, but for some reason, the absence of humidity, things just feel different. I am already in a fall mood just like those leaves outside my window and I am listening to music and it is hitting me in a way that music does in the fall, making me nostalgic. I have been listening to The Organ and The New Pornographers all day long, getting sad and giddy, depending on which band was playing and I think you know which band provoked what.

Have you seen the clouds today? I wondered if maybe they are always so amazing but it's the heavy heat that prevents you from checking them out, and today you can do so without getting blinded or melted by the sun. They are so low and so puffy and so great in number and the sky looks incredibly blue behind them. Man, oh man. I kept staring at them today, totally amazed. They make this entire town look different, look puny with that greatness floating overhead. I did laundry today and while I was doing it, I ate a burrito at Morelos that was as amazing as burrito might possibly get. I cut my hair today and I want to run away.

Hey, maybe I should mention that I talked to my dad on the phone today. I totally forgot about that because it was this morning and I am going on about a certain nostalgic moodiness and not identifying, failing to even think of it, what is probably the thing that provoked it. It was a quick talk, maybe five minutes, but the first time I have talked to him in a really long time. It's weird talking to a really sick person because I am not really sure what to say. He said he was doing fine and I wasn't going to contradict him and say his sister told me otherwise. He also had stuff done to his vocal chords. I couldn't understand what he was telling me about it, because his voice was made very weird by this process. The main thing he wanted me to do was to tell my mom he said hi. And even though his voice was fucked up and he is slowed down a lot by his approaching death, I still heard somewhere in there, the person I remembered, and it made me vaguely sad in a passing away about how things change, and people do, and then die.

I have lots of my mind and because of that, nothing is being done. Too many things going on and not going on. I need a job. I hung out with Greg last night and talked to him for a long while. I went home and wrote a really long email, insanely long, to Paul continuing our recent discussion of pop music and crushes on boys and what it means and why. And those thoughts have been continuing to flesh themselves out today way past the hitting of Send, and there might even some thing to show from our discussions of my crushes. I like trading emails with people and am excited for him to respond. Even though I talk to him in person often it is so much more fun to compose emails and trade them back and forth.

And why is that? Why is it that I love the music turned up loud on my stereo with no one else home, why I want to dance here by myself and do, and why it is so much easier to sustain your enthusiasms in the absence of actual human beings who normally if they are human will do nothing but temper those enthusiasms, why I can't make eye contact with other people, and why I am here again writing in my online diary rather than calling you on the phone to chat, or, you know, going out into that bright, big world and living?

Note to self and to everyone else: Never ever, no matter how much you don't feel like walking the extra distance, get burritos from La Bonita on Grand and Keap. Never!

It is only a block from my house, this La Bonita, and I always walk past it on my way to Grand Morelos, a ten minute walk, just because Morelos has such amazing, such cheap burritos. Today, I was feeling lazy even though I was craving a spicy pork burrito the way Morelos makes them, and thought I could get something similar at La Bonita, assuming it's a Mexican place and must serve burritos. I ordered two pork burritos for four dollars! Cheaper than Morelos! But, the first sign that they would not be amazing was when I asked for guacamole also, and the woman told me they didn't have that there. WTF? How can a place that serves burritos not have guac?

Well, my friends, it is because they do not serve burritos there, either. I got home with this product. Each "burrito" was wrapped into two of those wet, thick, undercooked tortillas that I hate. Why two? One is bad enough. But in addition, it was just the pork that they serve on their Cubans, not shredded, not spicy, not Morelos. On top of that was so much shredded nasty lettuce and then it was topped with a single slice of a tomato. A slice! Not diced tomatos which would make sense since this isn't a fucking burger, but a slice of a tomato. Oh Morelos and their 3.25 burritos are so worth the walk. This burrito was so bland and awful, even the nasty hot sauce they gave me was unable to save this burrito from blandness, from badness. Fucking yuck!

So, maybe you heard the story a couple weeks ago of the man who died after being fucked by a horse - some vital things were punctured. And then it came out that the farm was known for this, that the owner serviced people who were into getting fucked by horses, sort of bestiality tourism. And then because things always get weirder, there were tapes apparently of the guys getting fucked, including of the guy who died shortly after. It had been supposedly floating around on the internet, and because I am a sicko, I tried to see it, but it was pretty hard to find then. Until today. Fleshbot posted a link to it. And yes, what would Susan Sontag have to say about this and my (dis)regarding the pain of others? The thing is already pretty disturbing to watch, even more so because it is a snuff film without the ending we all know happened. And so why did I watch it? I don't know. It has left me feeling pretty horrible, though.

sexpectations

I don't even know how I recognized this person, having never seen them naked and having only met them once in person a couple months ago, but from this ass shot, I knew who it was or was pretty sure and so asked him if it was him. He wrote back confirming yes, that he was my crush. I saw my crush kind of naked!

His ad said: if you come over and give me a real good, soothing massage with oils, i will be the happiest boy in ny.

And then I wrote his name, followed by a question mark and sent it from one of my annonymous email accounts.

He said: why yes. who's this?

I said: Um, should I confess who I am and make myself seem like an obsessive able to spot a crush even in a partial photo of their body, or should I not? Whatever. Um, this is Charlie, and I am not sure you remember me. I am [X]'s friend and I met you once, that opening night of the Cock.

But I saw [X]'s and [X]'s pictures of you and remember them fairly clearly, your skin tone and hairiness, and is that really weird that from those two photos, I was able to spot part of you in another photo? I kind of think it does and I am embarrassed. Thought you were really cute and that's why I remember.

He said: how extraordinary. you must have some mystical powers or good guessing skills. i'm pretty flattered by your crush and i do remember you. however, unless you're amazing at giving soothing massages, with no sex expectations, i must hit the hay--i work tomorrow.

I said: yeah, i am awful at giving massages. but have a good night and awesome dreams!

He said: thanks. you too.

And that was all that was said, and probably too much, and both of us will probably feel weird if we ever run into each other. God, I really need to stay off the internet. And oh yeah, there is a project involving my crushes that I am working on with a friend that will hopefully happen.

Oh yeah, we have a new roommate as of October 1st. She is not the person that Jillian and I were agreed upon last night. Yesterday, she was second place, but things change when you sleep on them, and we invited her back over today for beer and decided we wanted to live with her. Her name is Amanda. She's from Mississippi and mildly introverted and completely sweet. And she has an awesome Mississippi accent. I really think she is going to be an awesome person to live with.

And um, a partially naked picture of a crush?! Did I mention that?

At first, things were so painful, so awkard. Our first visitor showed up half an hour before we told people to come, did not apologize for the fact that she came early, did not say much of anything. Looked at the room, sat on our couch and told us hardly anything about herself. I asked her if she wanted to see the kitchen and bathroom. She said, "No, I am sure they are fine." And then she asked if she could call tomorrow, and I told her I would call her on Monday. WTF, Jillian and I asked each other after she left. Who wouldn't even look at an apartment that they are interested in moving into? I don't even know if I can describe how awkward the silences were. Awful!

Two more people came who weren't very social before I got smart and downed a beer. From that point on, either the people visiting were more social or I was less uptight because of the beer and most of the time was spent waiting around for people to show up. Only seven of the twenty-five I told about the open house came. Out of those seven, four of them, I wouldn't mind living with. Two, in fact, both Jillian and I love. And one of those four was able to offer us free cable, internet, and phone service since she works for Comcast. Too bad, she wasn't one of the two we really liked. But for a while, we were seriously considering living with the free cable chick. We are pretty sure we have made our decision. This last girl was pretty much the most perfect, laid-back person ever.

Now, tonight's options. Since I am already exhausted from drinking earlier, The Quiet American on 13 or some house party in Chinatown? Loser? Non-loser? Tough call. No, seriously, it is.

I broke my promise within, what, three days of making it? Tonight, I went to Metropolitan because it was this nice boy's, Josh, birthday. So yes, went to a gay bar, went incredibly stoned, and as a result could not stand to interact with the huge group that was there for Josh.

Man, this one guy, Suluman (sp?) was so annoying, so everything I hate about gay bars and bars, in general - just this inane chatter at so loud and so aggresive a pace, saying nothing at all. And he was hitting one me a little, touching me more than I was comfortable with. This, the drunk boy, Ethan and I basically carried down Grand Street a couple of weeks ago. This boy, I want to punch in the face. Ugh, and I wanted to talk to Josh and Paul and Daniel, and there were all these other people between me and them and everyone engaged in talks that bored me to tears, except for Josh, who sparked by those birthday anxieties, started talking so lovely about the process of ageing, and of course, was cut off by one of Suluman's sarcastic, over the top (I want to say gay, but you know, I am trying not to be that type of person, but yes, gay, unserious) stand up bits. Josh was earnestly formulating these thoughts about age and examining your progress in life, your percieved lack of it - and because why be sincere about anything - it was derailed in so absurd a fashion, a way that only a gay boy could manage to do, by Suluman going on and on about skin care, asking a flustered Josh how he managed to look so young, exactly what brands of soap he used to wash his face in the morning, and what exactly was his morning face routines. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!

I looked around me and Suluman was right next to me, touching me in some flirty manner and there were people close to me talking about something stupid, and I asked myself what I was doing, why I was there if so many of those people annoyed me and I was not forming any meaningful human connections, just numbing myself to that even being a possibility - and I said hell no, or I said that in my head, because I said nothing and just sneaked away, responding to Suluman's pleas asking me where I was going, that I was just going inside for a second. And I dashed through the bar, out the front door and was away from it all and felt so good. Texted Paul to apologize for my top-secret exit, came home and ate half of a rotissere chicken and half a pint of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream (mmm!), and that is a whole, right? A whole what?

Argh! I was woken up by Billy this morning at 9:40, and I feel slovenly for complaining about that, but still, I should be able to sleep as long as I want without Billy, the repair guy banging on my door and calling out my name over and over again, not Dara's, not Jillian's, but Charlie, hello, Charlie, hello over and over again until I moaned Hold on, threw on some clothes and anwered the door. And he joked, "What, you were asleep still, I woke you up?"

This family, our landlords, are so insane with how they never give notice about anything. Instead of calling me yesterday to say he was going to come take a look at our bathroom wall in the morning, and asking if I would be here - he just shows up and bangs on the door until I answer. And God, the weather, the slight drizzle and the gray sky is the perfect sleeping in late weather. Fuck you, Billy! And he looked at it for about five seconds with his little toy dog and said he didn't have those tools to replace the wall, and that he'd be back. So I have been afraid to go back to bed. And I didn't even think to tell him that he better not show up with his mama-mia exclaiming, singing ass tomorrow because he will be turned away because we are having an open house and cannot have construction going on during it. Motherfuck!

going to the movies by yourself is one of the best feelings this city offers

I thought our tub was unfixable, the layer of grime and orange that has been on it since we moved in two years ago. I had at one point tried scrubbing it off, but never tried again, and my roommates have never tried it. Hell, I think the bathroom has only been cleaned maybe four times within these past two years, and none of those times were by my roommates. But I bought these "Scrubbing Bubbles" at a Rite-Aid today, thinking that I had to try to make our bathroom look somewhat less nasty since we will be showing it to about 25 people on Saturday, and the tub is so much nicer looking. I cannot believe that I never spent the three dollars on this little product that makes my living space look so much nicer. After scrubbing my tub, I lied in bed, drinking coffee and reading The New Yorker, feeling mildly bougie for the pleasure that I get from excellent grammar and beautifully constructed sentences.

I fell asleep for about half an hour and then went to the Angelika to see Werner Herzog's Grizzly Man. And it was good, amazing at times, but I think I had too high expectations after reading a few reviews commending it for putting other documentaries to shame. Some of the scenes that Herzog documented seemed so staged and contrived, his interviews with the coroner, especially - I winced during those scenes because it was so obvious that the coroner was aware of performing for the camera. And I wonder if this isn't because of Herzog's Germanness, that people in this rural area felt if not alienated from him, at least not totally free enough to banter at ease. I try to imagine my own reaction if this man with a thick German accent asked me questions, and how the response he would get would be so different from than if a gay peer of mine were asking me questions, how you are more at ease with certain people, as troubling as that might be. I am not trying to sound xenophobic, but I really think that had an American interviewed them, they would not have been stiff and unnatural, that there wouldn't have been that apprehension of being misunderstood that there sometimes is when you are talking to someone with a thick accent, worried that they might not understand your humor or your verbal tics. I tone down my use of acronyms when I am talking to someone with a thick accent, obviously English not being their first language. I confuse people normally. I am always so worried with these communication issues, almost a little paranoid about them sometimes.

But yeah, that Grizzly Man is a fucking nutcase in so many ways. It is so troubling, his sentimentalism about nature, him crying over the death of a fox or a dead bumble bee, and it is really funny when Herzog comes in with a voiceover in his thick, deep German accent contrasing with Grizzly Man's high, almost flamboyant voice - Herzog saying that the natural order of the universe is chaos, murder, and grief. Just some of those scenes when Herzog is filming - not the amazingly assembled footage that Grizzly Man shot - the Herzog stuff seems a little too forced for my taste. There is a narrative that he wanted to shoot, obviously, and he went about doing that. It's in contrast to Ross McElwee's movies who also seems to start out with a narrative he wants, and lets you know that, but ends up wandering all over the map and leaves that as his finished film. He's a lot more freewheeling and not as demanding that his desired narrative happen. He seems thrilled when it goes off course and captures those things - it all seeming so natural. Seriously, I can't get past that coroner and the watch scene. It was so staged and unnatural. Did you see it? Didn't you think so?

The walk home was really nice. The moon is full and there were occasionally clouds passing over it and I ate a slice of pizza that burned the skin off the roof of my mouth.

A couple hours ago, I exclaimed: I am the most disgusting person ever!

At two, I got a call from the regular who I haven't seen in a long time and I told him I would be at his house in an hour. And so I started drinking tons of water since at that point my piss was a couple drops of dark yellow, you know being totally dehydrated from downing an obscene amount of vodka last night. So I drank and drank water, what I normally do before I head out to his house.

And as I am downing maybe a fifth glass of water on my way out the door, already running a little behind, it all came back out in Exorcist fashion. I am spewing vomit with force all over the kitchen sink. My head erupted. It was coming out of my mouth, my nose, and my eyes - so much of it.

I wipe it off my face, look at my disgusting self in the mirror, throw up on my nose, my eyes red and watery and think that there is no way I can go meet that guy right now, that I have probably never felt unsexier in my entire life. But then I think how he is a regular that I haven't heard from in a long time, and it would be good if he started calling me again, and there was also the fact that I only had twenty dollars to my name also. And so yes, I made myself look as presentable as possible and got on the train. I could still smell the throw up on the train. I am sure I got it on my clothes and didn't even notice it. I only cared mildly that the people sitting next to me had to smell me because I was feeling pretty nauseous still and thought I would spew again if I bothered to pretend I had social grace and did not plop down between people smelling like vomit.

And yeah, then I went and fed piss to some old man and got head from him. Prety much up there in the running for filthiest person ever. Look out, Devine, I'm coming for your crown.

Afterward, I picked up some food to feed my forcefully emptied stomach. Sub, chips, ice cream. Mmm.

on poptacular

hey paul,

hope you made it home okay last night. it was fun dancing to silly songs with you. that magnetic fields song i was talking to you about on the train ride is "long-forgotten fairytale" - and i think it is totally amazing. even on this hungover morning, i am still able to appreciate it on a pretty insane level. see my thing with music, with specific pop songs is pretty analagous to my thing with boys - this obsessive personality i have where i want to play it again and again, and it is sort of that same giddy thrill from crushes that i get from pop songs, and that's what i am trying to talk about by poptacular. you see i don't know if there is a way to describe it, you either know the thrill of having a crush where you want to jump up and down in their presence, or you don't. but if you do, that is what a pop song that i am crushing on is like, a sure thrill, being able to feel giddy because of some synth beats. and god, music is fucking amazing, nothing new in that statement, but really, it is, and when i think that it is able to so easily produce these excited states of emotion in me, that all you need to do is hit play on some music playing device and my mood will be altered. god, fuck psychopharmacology - it's all in pop songs. pop songs and boys. cute ones. and yes, you told me i would wear out the song, playing it on repeat for hours, but is that bad if those moments, those days before you are tired of the song are amazing days and where you have a thrill about the song, however unable to sustain itself it may be, that for its brief life is out of this world. same thing with boys and crushes and me flitting from one to the next. the fireworks are brief, but god, they are bright.

and last night, you wanted me to tell you my crushes and i will surely do so. they vary pretty often though, but this might be the heirarchy of my obsessions as of this morning:

-greg
-christopher
-ashton
-craig - http://www.friendster.com/user.php?uid=302232

god, those boys are track 15, disc 2 of 69 love songs. they make me the same sort of giddy. and as you progress down the list, the boys begin to hate me more and more. might as well throw matt down right below craig to continue that pattern.

um, so greg. let's talk about him for a second. so i don't get him, or i do, and it makes me sad. so last night, he apologized for not calling me, saying he's really shy. so i told him i wasn't and he should give me his number, that i would have no problem calling him. and so he gave me his number and then told me that he just broke up a couple of weeks ago with his boyfriend of three years and so isn't looking for anything more than friends right now, and that's why he doesn't really know how to behave when people flirt with him.

and so i left the bar because he didn't want to come to runt. and then i didn't even go to runt, ditched ethan, and went home. when i got home, i got a call from greg asking if i was still at runt and/or going to queer metal. i told him i was home and he said that we should hang out, maybe go see a movie. and he wrote me again today reaffirming that he wants to hang out. and see i mean maybe i am deluding myself and there is really no confusion here, he really just wants to be friends. but i am not sure if that precludes sexual
action, that he just doesn't want a boyfriend. um, i am confused and mildly disappointed, but i guess still excited to hang out with him.

ps- that's also why i ditched ethan last night, because i like things left vague, the option for hope there, and when i relayed this story to him, he made things more stark, told me that it wasn't going to happen and it's just a line you give someone wanting to be friends, asking me when have i ever gotten that line and actually become friends with them. and i have gotten that line before and ended up friends with people. but his doom and gloom outlook about this boy, this pop song making me giddy, really annoyed me and i did not want to
talk to him anymore and so went home.

and fuck, fucking yeah, pop songs turned up loud are amazing!!!!!!!!

right?

Blah blah fucking blah. No. 1 Chinese was fun tonight, except I had to yell at a chick for telling me I danced so cute. This after three girls already told me how cute I was. I am so tired of fucking patronizing fag hags not realizing how offensive they are.

The moon is almost full. I wanted to go for a long walk tonight and missed Peter, realized everyone is lame in comparison. Anyone that lives near me want to be my walking buddy, and go on late night walks shooting the shit?

Also, I think I am not going to any more gay bars for at least a month. Hopefully longer. Me and Proust = boyfriends forever. My one and only love these days.

Disc 2, Song #15 of 69 Love Songs = Best Song Ever.

Today - As I wrote that, I shrugged to myself, sighing with joy exclaiming, "God, today..." As I did that, shrugged, whoa, major whiff of b.o. headed my way. So I am out of deodorant and I smell a little rank after my time in the sun today. That is what I was joyously sighing about, my trip down Graham Avenue today in that stretch between Grand and the JMZ. It was total eye candy the amount of dollar stores and cheap clothing stores and Mexican and Chinese restaurants and things being sold on the street. It was so lovely, wasting time, looking at crap I didn't need, and crap that I had only the faintest of intentions of actually purchasing. I know I talk shit about consumerism sometimes, but this busy street and the amount of wares on it made me so happy to see on this sunny day.

On my way home, I looped back down Broadway with the JMZ rumbling overhead and stopped at Domsey's, where I bought an amazing girl's western shirt for 3.50. There was this hideously gorgeous cashemere old lady sweater that I wanted and had been eyeing the whole time there, wondering if I should pay the nine dollars for it or not. On my way out of the store, with my western shirt in a bag, I added the sweater to the bag also and solved that problem of feeling guilty about spending money on a sweater I might or might not wear. Right now though, I am leaning toward wearing that shit. I want it to be cold right now so I can get away with wearing it. I have so many hideous old lady sweaters or little girl sweaters that I never wear. But this one fits me so nicely. They all sort of look like something Ruby would have worn in one of the early Cosby Show episodes.

Oh yeah, it's pink with this light green pattern on it of clovers and it is awesome.

Assuming they are not reading this, can I tell you guys about the worst prank ever? So I was hanging out with Jamie this evening, telling her about how it went with that artist. And then as I so often to do, I started talking about boys and my crushes. And I confessed to her that I have been getting giddy all day each time the phone rings with an unrecognized number. Greg asked me for my number again this afternon because he lost his cell phone and so I emailed it to him again. I have been hoping, and this is what I told Jamie, that he would call me right away because I really wanted to do something tonight and even more so, with him. I have given out my number to so many people about the apartment and so all these random numbers keep calling me today, and even knowing this, I still hope that each one is Greg and get so excited saying hello, hoping that the person will be Greg. And I was confessing this to her, telling her how alive I get when the phone rings, literally a beating heart. She thought this was kind of silly and she joked that one day she was going to have Jared call me. I ignored her comments and went on about boys for some time more.

Jared came over and I went upstairs with my beer, bored, and started watching Sex and the City, and shortly thereafter my phone rang, another unrecognized number. I was so giddy, because I normally am anyway, and plus I was watching this sentimental show making me even more drippy. I answer the phone hello. The boy says, "Hey, is this Charlie? This is Greg." I am so excited and he asks me what I am doing and I tell him really nervously that I am bored terribly and watching Sex and the City, and yes it's lame, what are you doing, Greg? My heart is fucking racing and then I hear silence and some giggling in the background. And I am so shocked that Jamie did this and also all the more dissapointed that Greg did not call. I guess this joke should make me realize that I am being a little silly, but man, it stung so much and then they invited me to play Scrabble with them. I did, but the whole game, I was sort of resenting them still about the phone prank for getting me excited and then laughing at my excitement. We listened to one of the albums from the Magnetic Fields' 69 Love Songs, and all those over the top lyrics seemed less over the top than usual.

I used to be shocked not too long ago when Joe would constantly tell me about how he met this or that guy on the street, totally not understanding how these interactions start, never having really experienced them that much. Maybe I am a more chill person these days, less so bouncing down the street, and so I am looking around, noticing things, noticing people noticing me.

I didn't have any tupperware to store this pasta salad that I just made, so of course, I went to the Chinese place to buy their homemade tea to drink and then use as a container for this pasta. On my way out the door, there is a car slowing down as I come out the door and then waits there in the street, and I was annoyed because I was sure that this was one of those cars constantly honking outside on the street, waiting to meet someone, too lazy to knock on the door. I don't know who it is that lives on our street that is constantly getting rides places from douchebags who honk over and over again on the street. But so I glared at this person, only to get back a stare that was way more friendly than a glare, even kind of flirty. I was very confused and kept on walking, turning back later to see him talking to some girl, the girl he was probably waiting for I assumed.

So then I think I am an egotistical prick for assuming this man was flirting with me, get my tea and as I am walking home there he is right on the other side of the street now outside the Chinese place, just waiting there. Sans girl. He leans over the passenger seat toward the window and asks me how it's going. So confused and so not horny enough to even consider this, I said good, waved and walked home really fast. What is really amazing to me is that these past cruisy interactions have not been in the East Village, not in Chelsea, not even in Manhattan, but in the derelict parts of Williamsburg with people I would never expect to be gay.

I have about two hours to make my apartment look somewhat presentable since it is going to be photographed by this artist who wrote me on MySpace and his schtick is taking pictures with gay strangers at their house. After I agreed to do it, I looked at his site and realized that I am friends with three of his other subjects which I found pretty funny, that the Brooklyn homo world is so small.

And then I have three days to make my apartment look not just somewhat presentable, but like a place strangers would want to live in since we are having our open house on Saturday. I have already given directions our place to about twenty people who have responded to our ad. Two of these people are New College people, which would be really funny if we continued the trend of having all New College people live in this building. Saturday, it is going to be really fun to meet all these strangers, definitely awkward at times when they show up at the same time, but hopefully that will be fun, too. I am pretty sure I will be drinking beer during our open house to minimize my ability to percieve awkwardness.

I hope this isn't making me one of those people, you know, losers - by talking here on my Livejournal about MySpace, but here goes, and you know, I think the love of Billy Joel already might have me securely in that loser category. So, recently I changed my photos on MySpace, maybe two or three days ago I did this, and really I need to change them again soon, I fear. So apparently, by being not totally clothed in my main photo - I am wearing a negligee - I am advertising that I want to be your friend. This afternoon alone I got five friend requests from total strangers, most of them eighteen year old gay boys. I have gotten three messages this afternoon. One from a gay boy telling me how cool I am. Another one from some man in Staten Island who wants to hang out. And one from a young woman in Manhattan who wants to be friends for some reason. It's insane how often they are appearing now, these random people, whereas, prior to photo change, I rarely heard from strangers.

It makes me want to vomit. Whenever I see that New Friend Request link I get excited and hope that it is someone I know that found me, but they are random people in towns I have never even visited and I click delete and for some reason get really annoyed by this, and annoyed at myself for making myself sound cool, presenting myself in such a stylized manner that has only little basis in my day to day life.

I mean, the me getting totally wasted part all the time is totally true. Last night, I went out to Stache, met Niki and Ramsey there. And they eventually left me there alone when I went to the bathroom, by which time I was totally wasted and not really wanting to go home. It was rum I had been drinking and so I was maybe more than mildly horny and stood by myself for a while smoking, staring at boys, and hoping some would talk to me. It wasn't happening, so I danced with Evan and his friend. And left when they left, not knowing other people there, and the place not being social enough to make new friends.

As I was walking along Delancey, this really hot man, walking in my direction, was rubbing his stomach in that lazy way that turns me on so much, the shirt slightly lifted, and I was trying to check out his stomach without being obvious - and thought I had succeeded until he stopped me to ask me a question as we were passing. He was German and asked me in accented English where the boys were - veer are zee boyz? - that he thought they were in this neighborhood. He was really close to me and definitely flirting with me and he had really awful breath and either for that reason or the me being a total wimp reason, I didn't try to take him home with me. I told him Stache was a couple blocks away and gave him directions. As soon as we parted, I regretted not being more bold and also for telling him to go a place where I had no luck, which is not cruisy, and after he had left, I thought of the much sleazier bars not too far, The Cock, Boysroom, Urge.

So by the time I get on the subway, I totally have sex on the brain and when I get off the J train, I am a drunk, stoned, horny mess. I walk home and there is this tough looking Latin kid walking my way whose muscular chest I was imagining under his white t-shirt and I made eye contact with him and did not get my ass kicked. But nothing happened, he rounded the corner and for the next block I daydreamed about him and kept turning over my shoulder, for some reason hoping for him to appear on the block again.

Then that was not the end of it, my night of cruisy encounters in this Puerto Rican neighborhood right by my house. So then there is this large, older man walking my way that I am trying not to make eye contact with and maybe he saw me turning back constantly after that guy and knew that I was looking. I don't know. He asked me to sell him a cigarette, and I lied and told him I didn't have any because I did not want to interact with him. Then I start to walk away and he asks if I hang out at Boogaloo, saying he recognized me. And I laughed because I have only been to that bar once, two years ago, and it was really hilirious how awful and snotty that place was. I told him no and he said he works the door there and recognized me and while saying this he kept giving me this really cruisy stare. Sorry, I said. And then he asked me if I smoked weed, and even though I did want to get stoned more, I told him no, answered some more of his questions and then finally escaped from him and crossed the street to make it home.

And oh yeah, earlier in the night, a blind homeless man who I gave a cigarette to and chatted with for a while, told me he would fuck me real good. I have people interested in me on the street at three in the morning, people interested me on the internet, but man, when I tried talking to people at that bar last night, they fled so quickly, but of course, they were also not blind men with blind canes.

I didn't do what I said I was going to do and now am writing a pretty absurd third entry in one day, but doing so to let you know that yes, I didn't write, didn't read - instead ordered Chinese food, got stoned, watched Family Guy, and now because you know, why not, I am going to Stache. Open bar 10-11. See you there? That's why I was writing, in the hopes that you would go too and maybe we could talk and maybe dance.

message in a bottle

A death, my father’s, was just predicted to me. My aunt Herta, his sister, the only person that I know to still be in contact with him just called me to let me know that he was really ill, sick, and that there was nothing else they, the doctors presumably, could do for him. It was hinted by her and understood by me that he was going to die very soon. The one question I really wanted to ask, I didn’t out of superstition that a timeframe uttered would condemn him to that timeframe or just out of a general social propriety that I couldn’t even shake off to ask the thing I really, really was curious about - how much time he had left and when he was going to die.

From her tone, just from her calling me, which she rarely does – I knew, I know that things are serious and that at most he probably has a couple of weeks left to live. I got his address from her and I think I am going to smoke some weed and write him, say things, send a bottle of something, a message out there that I doubt I will get back, that the person may not read, may not understand, and may not reply to. But I would hate for things to end and feel as if I did not make clear my love of him, of life, and how shitty things were. The thought is what really scares me, not his death so much, but the thought that this really will probably be the last words of mine that he consumes, that what I write to him will be the end of our conversation. Is one less reader a diminishment of your own voice, a small death of yours, or is this my self-centeredness again, thinking an actual death of someone should be fodder for analogies about my own death?

His death was predicted a couple years ago and he has lived past that point, managed to get himself arrested, and now will, unless he manages to sidestep death again, die in some medical jail in North Carolina way past the point in time someone already had dotted with his death. And so, for the reason that I have been anticipating it for so long, thought it was already going to happen, I am not that scared, not that surprised, not even as emotional as I think I should be given that this is my father, the man responsible for half of my genetics, that I had and do have so many issues with him – that yes, this should be a bigger deal than it is. And maybe it will be when it happens, but I am not into predicting those things.

Herta told me I should try to contact my sister who is halfway across the world in Indonesia and who hates our father and I am so tired of people having their life thrown into emotional disarray by him and don’t want to write her, but know I should. I also don’t want to tell my mom either because it has been constant turbulence for her, her life constantly being shaken by his recklessness and now she’s getting married in three weeks and I really, really want this not to be happening right now, for it to wait two months so that this doesn’t overshadow my mom’s joy at getting remarried to an awesome person.

And so this long chapter that has been going on for what seems so long is finally picking up narrative steam and heading off toward some sort of conclusion and it is sad talking to Herta because she is obviously holding back tears talking to me and this is her brother and it means something to her, his impending absence that it has yet to mean to me. The two of us are reading different texts, not even the same chapter, totally different books and it is the same character soon dying that we are reading about.

I don’t like how we don’t say everything, how my mom and my sister don’t know about this and how I feel guilty for having to tell them, as if communication is the problem and not the thing being communicated. I want to be and I am going to be open and free and loving and alive and I want everyone else to be also and maybe by doing this actually, by being these things I can make the people I am interacting with comfortable enough to live also.

Surely part of the reason yesterday was such a bust as far as me being, you know, even a halfway alert human being was the disgusting heat, but I can't pin all the blame on external forces and my lack of air conditioning, because most definitely most of the blame must be pinned on my insane level of substance consumption on Friday night that my body spent most of yesterday recovering from. And to make matters worse, when all I wanted to do was lie in bed in front of my fan hungover, I couldn't even do that because at ten o'clock there was a boom boom boom on my door. Quickly I got dressed, you know, because it is a hundred degrees and I sleep naked, and I tried to suppress my hard-on visible through my shorts enough so I could answer the door - and there was my large landlord and his son ready to replace my bedroom door so that we can actually rent out my room, you know, because most people other than me would not live in a place with a giant hole where a door handle should be so everyone in the building's hallway can see you. And you know, I was way unexcited about them doing this then when all I wanted was sleep, and you know, I am really in love with saying "you know" lately and why, I cannot claim to know, but maybe, you know, you might.

So I spent the day watching bad movies, Jaws 2, Parenthood, etc, that were showing on basic cable, and the whole time wanted to crawl back in bed. Hours and hours later, they finally finished the half-assed job of putting up a new door. I lied in my bed, read from Within a Budding Grove, and drifted off to sleep. I woke up to meet David at Metropolitan and getting out of bed, saw this clear imprint of my body, a sweat soaked trace of the position I had been sleeping in. I know you guys know that Proust is awesome, but can I just say it one more time, add another voice to the chorus: Good fucking God, he is amazing! Life is so much better when you are reading a good book, when your senses are pricked by these lovely sentiments and you are made more aware of life's beauty in between your nightly readings of the book. When people deride the products of consumerist culture, this is the surely what they mean, what they are talking about, that Jaws 2 entertains me, maybe even you, but it fails to heighten your perceptions of everyday life, to make life more livable.

So feeling a little bit better, I went to Metropolitan and didn't really want to drink, but you know, being at a bar and all, did - and talked to David about various things, race, America, things that I don't talk too much about with people anymore, no longer being in school and no longer working at a bookstore. And I felt bad about this, like there were points where my interest in the conversation wavered and Zach came up to talk to us and we stopped talking about interracial dating and adoption because you know, you have to sort of contain yourself to superficial bar talk with some people - and I noticed the difference, felt bad that I allow myself to have these seperate spheres, where there are things I care a lot about but don't really talk to most people about, especially in bars. And it's probably for the best, because then I'd probably be engaged in some bar fights, very few people being intelligent enough to talk about these things without saying something that makes me want to punch them in the teeth.

Oh yeah, I am in love with the graffiti in the stalls of the girl's bathroom at Metropolitan. It is so cute, all these little sayings and bits of gossip. And the reason I am saying this is because my usage of the word "teeth" provoked thoughts to this one thing I read and thought so adorable and talked to various people about, none of them appreciating to the extent I wanted them to, the cuteness of this sentiment, and the even more amplified cuteness of someone writing this sentiment in sharpie in a bathroom stall: "Shannon from Caddyshack is so hot she makes me teeth sweat." That imagery of sweating teeth entertained me so much and I told this to a boy I have had a crush on for exactly two years and two days, Christopher, and he seemed mildly amused by it in the way that you are to little children who tell you stories you really don't care about. His friend that he was with, this cartoon of an electroclash hipster from three years ago, didn't find it funny, was, you know, too cool to engage in conversation with me. Shortly thereafter, Christopher and Nelson (Are you kidding me? This cartoon character's name is Nelson. Ha!) went back inside and on his way inside Christopher laid his hand on my shoulder saying he was going inside.

And what that means and what that meant intrigued me so much. I wasn't sure if it was a slight attempt at flirting, or if it was more of that patronizing you're-such-a-precocious-little-tyke attitude. But, you know, of course, I was hoping that it was the former and sort of entertained fantasies of making out with him, or of even just talking to him and seeing his wide as pie eyes and his cute smile - and well, I had another beer and talked to David some more, and did not make out with Christopher, did not talk to him again after that. There was none of the wholesome visual comsumption of his cute facial expressions that animate his face when you are talking to him and his smile is wide and really organic seeming, and you think to what it means that this boy's smiles appear with such ease, of you don't think about that because you are not at that level of thought, but surely those easy smiles and what they might mean unanalyzed are what makes you giddy, giddy as all fucking hell to be in his presence.

I parted with David when he got into a cab and walked home by myself sort of clutching those recalled images of his face and was a variety of happy, filled with a longing, maybe naive, maybe pathetic, but still this dreamy feeling carrying me onward and only mildly lonely off to my house, through the process of brushing my teeth and washing my face, keeping melancholy enough at bay for me to fall asleep easily.

So, I was looking at the KRS site today and saw that there were some benefit concerts being held for Beth Ditto, lead singer of The Gossip. Apparently, she had to undergo gall bladder surgery and racked up loads of hospital bills. But she still has a pretty gruelling fall tour coming up real soon - do you think they are going to cancel the dates?

I also am really sad because I will be out of town for my mom's wedding when they play here in New York, but they are playing a showcase show for CMJ anyways with all those other KRS bands. I want to travel and see them at one of their real shows if the tour still happens glitch free. Maybe a trip to Burlington? Or maybe even dream vacation to Montreal with a trip to L'Adonis strip club to see Pierre Fitch and all the other famous Montreal strip clubs? That would require lots of planning and money. Oh, the daydreams of a pervert on a late summer day.

))><(( forever.

God, today - it's just one of those days. And by that I mean one of those good days where I make eye contact with everyone I walk by and just want to melt into the ground, or into the streetlights, the store signs - all those glowing lights which looked and do look so beautiful tonight.

Earlier today, I went to the Mercer Hotel and made such easy money - saw a guy for maybe fifteen minutes, beat the hell out of his ass, pulled his hair, pissed on him and generally enjoyed playing this dom role, but definitely felt like I was stretching it, too aware that I am not this dom person, and there were moments where I felt like my performance was not credible. But I left with money in my wallet, bought some house things, came home for a short while and then went back into the city to the IFC Center to see Me and You and Everyone We Know, the Miranda July movie, and yes, yes - it is everything everyone has been telling me.

It's so nice to go see sweet, touching movies by yourself, drinking coffee doing so and nibbling on a cookie. The seats there are so comfortable, even for me. Most seats are really comfortable now at all theaters, but they were obviously built for people a little shorter, and sometimes the headrests aren't tall enough, but man, at this theater, I was totally a little kid cuddled up in a Lay-z-boy - so fucking nice. And oh yeah, the movie was amazing. It made me so happy. I only rolled my eyes at one point, the art gallery director talking, which is the only spiteful moment in an otherwise deliriously lovely movie. July, waiting for someone to call, having a crush, things going terribly, awfully, and then of course, because it is still a movie, it working out eventually, and when I turned my phone on after the movie, I was July waiting by her phone, hoping hoping for a message from someone or even someones, and there wasn't one and I was only momentarily sad because you know, as I already told you, I was soon on the street and walking by human beings making eye contact and feeling totally overwhelmed in a good way with the busy sights on Sixth Avenue.

mia - central park

MIA. Holy motherfucking shit. That good. When the album first came out, I wasn't won over. In fact, all the hype made me resist it even more. I mean, it was good, but I wasn't going to throw all the great adjectives at the album that every white music critic was doing. I get nervous with things like this and worry about the quick embrace shown to pretty much any mildly cool non-white musician, that the embrace is too quick, and especially in MIA's case, there is some bit of exoticizing of the musical product that really disturbs me. Any non indie rock album that Pitchfork embraces definitely makes me nervous for reasons that it probably should, but also reasons that I probably exaggerate out of nervousness that this indie rock authority can predict which are the few hip hops albums I will enjoy. Are my tastes that predictable, are all of ours? And is that a bad thing, especially if it might be good taste? But yes, the past month I have decided that I love her and that she is the fucking shit, everything everyone said she was.

I met up with Joe, everyone else cancelling - Ethan being wiped from the night before and Niki claiming cramps. We got in the insanely long line stretching a few blocks, eventually got in and secured a place on the lawn part and waited through so much mediocrity and badness. Mr. Vegas, the opening act, was some loud reggae star who sung other people's songs. So painful and so long. And then even after that, there was another hour delay, MIA apparently MIA (har-har), and Diplo having to spin dance songs for an hour. Finally though, the stage was setup with these really funny props, a cardboard tiger, a hanging helicopter, palm trees. Really, she is a design genius. Half of her appeal is this aesthetic that seems to borrow from everything but seems so uniquely her. Lots of eighties color combinations, graffitied stencils, and that whole guerilla chic aesthetic that I can't decide if it's really cool or really awful.

She had two backup dancers in some skanky leopard print clothes, and for this tiny woman, she had such a commanding stage presence that the large, muscular Mr. Vegas was unable to muster despite his many efforts to do so. I am really intrigued with her and what it means for someone who makes such blatant pop records to have these vaguely radical lyrics embedded in them. In that way, she seems connected to Le Tigre's efforts to make radicalism danceable. And man, it was fucking danceable, even more so, live. I got so sweaty. We were toward the back of the field and everyone ahead of us, the entire crowd, they were all dancing like maniacs for MIA. It was so good to see and to be a part of, that mass of dancing fools. I don't know how else to say it, but she is amazing! That is what I kept exclaiming to Joe after just about every song. God, isn't she amazing? She's so cool! Even though I had lost most of my excitement in the two hours waiting for her to come on, she managed to revive that lost excitement so easily, with the first beats played.

Afterward, I showered and went to bed at something close to seven o'clock. That's pm for those of you wondering.
__________________________

And I have now made it to that other site also. Check and check. Now, hopefully my obsession with these photo sites can end. Probably not, though.

boys boys boys

Last night started off so quiet, drinking vodka tonics in my hot apartment with Ethan, listening to the Pretenders and playing Scrabble.

After the game was over, we made our way to the Big Six where Dustin was celebrating his birthday and where so many attractive homos were, including Craig, who I have liked ever since moving to New York. We downed our smuggled in vodka tonic, smoked lots of cigarettes, and danced a whole bunch. Niki came and met us, stayed for probably all of five minutes, before making it known that she did not like the bar, that she was bored, and that she was leaving. Her criterion for boring is just about anything. This bar was so not boring. There were tons of people, all dancing - and the proof of its nonboringness was the appearance of Mark the Cobra Snake, aka The Cobra Snake, the other Lastnightsparty. I was so excited to see him in person. Really, my love of these two sites is pretty irrational. His is mainly an LA party site, so I was especially excited to see him. At some point, I talked to him a lot and he was really nice and so much more forthright than Merlin Bronques was, admitting unashamed and even a little proud that, of course, he altered people's behavior at these venues. He was really fun to talk to. He gave me a button and then Ethan and I made out for his camera.

Photos taken by Mark and the last of our booze drunk, we decided to leave. I found Ethan outside making out with some boy and holding him up. Apparently, this totally wasted boy needed to get home and he is someone that I vaguely know through friends of friends. Ethan, trying to be the good samaritan, offered to help him home and we rode a taxi up to the L and rode with him to Grand Street, but not before some meathead pushed drunk boy on the floor when he tried to sit on the bench. I am so mad I missed this. I was in the next car, walking toward them at the time, but really wished I had been there to yell at him and get my ass kicked. This boy was so incoherently drunk and Ethan tried to help him into his apartment, while I got the two of us burritos. Waiting for the burritos, where there was almost a brawl and some guy had to hide in the kitchen (WTF?), I got a call from Ethan saying he didn't know what to do with the guy. The guy did not have any keys on him or a cellphone to call any of his friends. I gathered the burritos, met up with Ethan and the wasted boy, and we buzzed his bell forever. Drunk boy tried calling his roommate from Ethan's phone, didn't have the number right.

This was getting so annoying and I didn't know why Ethan was taking so much care of this kid. At some point, I agreed to let the two of them sleep at my house and Ethan and the boy were walking behind me while I was thinking about how much I couldn't wait to eat my spicy pork burrito. The burrito dreams were rudely interrupted by the boy falling on the sidewalk and Ethan trying to help him walk, but the boy's legs giving out each time he stood up. It was still a long walk to my house. The two of us stood on each side of him and tried to help him walk. It worked for a block, him moaning "Pooh Bear" over and over, and then saying he had to go to his apartment. Ethan told him that he didn't have keys or a phone, and the wasted boy plopped down on a stoop in protest, and we told him that we were leaving, that this was his last chance for a place to sleep, and then finally left him, and burrito thoughts could enter my head again.

[Paragraph deleted here]

Ethan was going to crash at my apartment and because he looked so uncomfortable on the couch, I told him he could share my bed, and because I cannot drunkenly share a bed with a homo and not make out with him, yeah, we slept together. And I think Dara might hate me because her room is next to mine and I guess she had to work a lunch shift this morning. I ran into her this morning on the way to the bathroom and she didn't say anything, not that my roommmates ever do, because they are lame and need to die. And oh yeah, I might live with Evan, this insanely hot homo who I used to be way obsessed with. Good/Bad Idea? Circle one.

Or don't, because I know, and whatever.

Um yeah, did I mention that I am going to see MIA in a couple of hours, you heard? Fuck fuck yeah! Pull up the people, pull up the poor. I am a fighter, nice nice fighter. So fucking excited. Food and water in belly and then meeting Joe to get there early.

that which is chased runs

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gawker intern

So, Gawker is/was looking for an intern, and this is the email I just sent them. I would be very surprised to actually get a response from them.

Well, there is the fact, which perhaps, I shouldn't be too proud of, and certainly should not be listing as my first qualification to fetch coffee for the Gawker staff - but I am a lush, a broke one, and so have ferried my ass all over this city chasing the free booze from art openings to hipster bars to decidedly unhip bars. And yes, this is a plus in my favor, knowing perhaps too much about this city, particularly about its trashy scenesters.

The second qualification I am going to list is what I do on those hungover morning afters, spending too much of my time reading all those various internet periodicals: Livejournal, Maud Newton, Pitchfork, The Morning News, Black Table, Brooklyn Vegan, Lastnightsparty, The Corbra Snake, and yes, Gawker. So basically, I am the perfect candidate, that loser with too much time on his hands and familiar enough with New York to have that jaded attitude where all I want to do is poke holes in inflated egos.

And since everything good comes in threes, the third qualification, perhaps the only one that might typically be granted that descriptor, and surely the one I would have listed first had I been applying to some place other than Gawker, would be my previous experience writing and editing. I edited two publications in college, one, a queer send up of masculinity by way of Tiger Beat called Meat Beat. And so yes, I have a basic knowledge of Quark, Photoshop and various other computer programs.

What enables those first two qualifications, the drunkenness and hungoverness, is my current lack of employment, meaning that I am ready and willing to fetch coffee and crack jokes about rich people whenever needed. I would be really excited to intern with Gawker and I hope to hear back from you soon.

Thanks so much,
Charlie Q
[redacted]@gmail.com
917.XXX.XXXX

i am living proof of churchill's lies

Okay, really just two things and then I really need to do something with my day.

First, David Bowie's Hunky Dory is one of the best albums ever, which I am sure you already know. I cannot get enough of it lately. I am worried that this might be because I am constantly hungover and this album is perfect for those states. Mellow and inspiring, nice to sing along to. I am not sure if I would be listening to this album as often if I were in one of my more sustained manic states, but it doesn't matter, because right now, this music is as perfect as perfect gets.

Second of all, I am in love with people, with my friends, and with boys. I have had so much fun this past week or so hanging out with this large crowd of people tied to Florida. I don't want Ben to leave, ever. I want Gabriel here all the time to dance pantsless in bars. I really enjoy these people so much. I had so much fun last night dancing at No. 1 Chinese with all these kids. I remember Gabe pantsless. I remember Robyn and Ethan dancing in front of the bathroom door to keep a certain boy trapped inside so a certain boy could make out with another certain one. And these things make me giggle a lot. If you have friends that can make you giggle, really, you are set in this world. That's why I don't want them to leave because some of my friends don't make me giggle lately, they make me do something closer to the opposite, make me roll my eyes.

Okay, and maybe a third of all, but closely tied to the second of all in the joy that I get from human company lately and how happy I am when I am in a friendly social environment. Last night, I ran into Ashton at Nowhere, the missed connection from long ago, and introduced myself and he was a lot friendlier than I had anticipated from the sarcastic tone of his emails. He was actually really nice. And he was wearing boat shoes making him all the more attractive. Boys in boat shoes are one of my favorite sights.

And yeah, that's it. David Bowie, awesome friends, the sight of boys with the perfect mixture of physical features and charisma - these things, man, make life so good.

While The Captain's latest email message is mildly patronizing toward gay boys, I am still beyond thrilled about him playing at No. 1 Chinese tonight. I have only seem him play once, and it was one of the most fun dj sets I have ever heard. It just sounded fresh, some odd choices in the mix, unlike JonJon Battles who has been playing the same typical songs for the past two years Monday nights at the Cock. And maybe this guy tends to play the same songs all the time, but I wouldn't know, having only seen him once. And actually if he doesn't play one of the same songs, I might be upset. That song, being "Rock Steady." Me, being one of those nice little gay boys who get really excited when he plays that song:

this party has been getting a lot press, on the internet and in print, plus every time i ask someone if they know about the party they usually have something to say about it.
i havent dj-ed this party ina while, regardless of all the nice little gay boys who see me on the street or at misshapes protesting their love for my remarkable sets i do at bang which usually include songs like "rock steady" by the whispers or "Pony" by ginuwine or "wham rap 86" by wham.
either way, this is a fun party. and every time i come, this party is jumping. there will also be free SVEDKA 10 - 11 and some gift bags!

And oh yeah, gift bags!

Today's to-do list:
-Get phone turned on
-Do sex work, or try to.
-If successful early enough, do laundry, smelly.
-Get wasted out of my mind and dance like a maniac.

I went to this guy's house on 18th Street. He had advertised saying he wanted someone to come deliver a slice of pizza and then get naked/jack off for a big tip. Sounded totally easy and it was. When I talked to him on the phone, he said don't even worry about the pizza. At his house, I was pretty shocked by how huge it was. I think it is the biggest apartment I have ever been to in New York. And to make things even better, he was pretty hot and so we jacked off together and it was one of the more fun sexual experiences I have had in a while. He came, then I did, and then he paid me.

As I was leaving his apartment, I noticed some of the prints from Mapplethorpe's version of Rimbaud's "A Season in Hell." He has this prints hanging up in his fucking living room! The amount of money some people have shocks me to no end. He was impressed that I knew where the photos were from and so he did a quick show off of his art, pointing and me naming, going down the hallway, him pointing, me saying Larry Clark, him pointing, me saying Terry Richardson, Terry Richardson again, Damien Hirst, and then the one he was really proud of took me a few seconds to recognize, but then I realized who it was and got real giddy and said Cindy Sherman. So fucking crazy that people have these things in their own apartment, that they can be on their way to the bathroom in the middle of the night and pass by without even caring these pretty gigantic pieces of art that I have seen antholigized in various places.

It was when I was walking to the T-Mobile store from his house that I realized his was a house, and I live in a fucking hovel by comparison. I was thinking thoughts like these and some perverse thoughts since once I got my phoned turned back on, I was supposed to call someone who was going to spank me. A block away from the phone store, I stopped to get a slice of pizza because I was hungry and because you need exact change for those stupid bill paying machines. I leisurely ate my pizza, glancing at the clock, so content with myself and with getting things done, making my money, being able to get my phone back on, and generally just feeling awesome.

Done with my slice, I walked across the street to the T-Mobile store to find the door locked. I scream because this is ruining it all, the great moment I was having, the cockiness with feeling that things in this world were going my way, and here was something about to ruin it all, a locked T-Mobile store. And to make things all the more painful, they closed at eight. I was there at eight o two. Shut the fuck up. You have to be kidding me, I said, so mad at myself that had I not stopped to sit down and eat the pizza, my phone would now be working again.

But yes, for some reason, my phone still allows incoming calls, so if you want to do something tonight, you know, maybe give me a little ring.