I could probably look at the television listings to determine what time it was that I am talking about, what time it was that I, drunk and stoned to the nth degree, laid on my couch with my head propped up in case I threw up, watching Hairspray on TBS, feeling as if this moment was the rounding out of a circle that had started Wednesday night when I rode out to Middletown, New Jersey.

Over the past few days, with my family, I drank a lot of beer, and talked with my cousins about various things, often recalling past events in our family mythology and Hairspray was brought up at some point in these discussions. When we were kids, younger than we are now, whenever our two families got together for the weekend, we would watch this movie over and over again all weekend long, much to the displeasure of aunts and uncles. We would recite the lines from it, and at least on one occasion, reenacted the thing for our aunts and uncles, a very clear sign, as if one was needed, that I was a homo from a very early age.

I watched my seventeen year old cousin, who the day before made fun of me for being able to outdrink me, lose her bravado as she puked hungover on the main street in downtown Atlantic Highlands. I walked along the beach at Sandy Hook, inadequately dressed and shivered against the winds coming in off the ocean, trying to tell myself that the sight, the moment, this beach should overwhelm my physical discomfort. It didn't, though I could lie right now and tell you how beautiful this moment was, this chilly beach, tide, waves, sand, etc. There was a Chinese food place/bowling alley that we went to. And lots of roads driven down to get to all these places, roads through woody suburbs and along rivers and bigger bodies of water, and to ride as a passenger in a car and to get to just look, that is one of the most satisfying pleasures in this world, to be able to take in all of this with these eyes and for that to spark recollections of other things, to see these things in front of me and yet to see these other things long behind me so clearly.

And last night, I arrived back at my apartment after hanging out with my family in New York all day doing touristy things, and I had this desire to lose control of my self, to ideally sleep with someone. So I went to Boysroom with numerous people, drank numerous drinks, was well on my way to losing myself, and then with Allan, went into the bathroom and got stoned out of my fucking mind, totally lost myself three times over, to the point though where sleeping with someone was surely not going to happen. The end of the night is a blur. I do remember laughing a lot, and I remember that I wanted to dance but could not distinguish songs. Though surely I knew each song played there, I could not for the life of me determine what the song being played was, could only hear this rhythm, one I was projecting on to these songs, and then occasionally would catch some lyrics and realize that this rhythm I was hearing was nothing like the rhythm of the song with those lyrics and that maybe, just maybe, it would be better to not dance.

I do know that I ate two slices of pizza, and ended up at Metropolitan for one brief second before walking home alone, thinking brilliant thoughts, which I can only vaguely recall right now, and which I would like to transcribe for my own benefit right now, but there is a man on 96th Street who wants my cock in his mouth that I need to get dressed to go see, and so these attempts to filter stoned thought into something legible will have to wait.