Sunday, December 30, 2001

Saturday nights rock my world

Not really, but I thought I'd give a go at cheering myself up. It's been a depressing, depressing (TWICE for emphasis) day. The early rain did not help and neither did the three phone calls this morning that woke my ass up and made me wish that I were vacationing in a place where the only thing that would wake me up would be a tickling tongue on the aureola and a muscle bound servant in overalls feeding me coconut wedges in bed.

The first call was from a crying Manali around 9am. As it happens, she has been seeing TWO guys lately, the one she has been with for over a year, and the other an adulterous month or two. The latter decided to break it off with her for the following reasons: 1. She was interfering with his work out schedule (he is a nutritional counselor of all things and an ardent body builder). 2. He felt as if they did not have much in common. Manali's idea of a good time is getting drunk and asking "Do you love me???" every other minute, while his is snuggling up on the couch and watching a recently bought DVD. 3. And my favorite: She eats too much fast food.
Ordinarily I would have shown some compassion and offered some words of comfort like "at least you have fabulous hair", "you're BETTER than that," or "now if you get pregnant, you'll KNOW who the father is," but if you call me at 9 in the morning looking for some sympathy you've got another thing coming. The way I see it is, the only validated reasons to call me at such an early hour are (a) to inform me that I have won something expensive, (b) invite me to an all-expense-paid getaway to Tahiti, or (c) if you are a recently divorced rich man looking to relive the youth you never had and are looking for a younger guy with rosy cheeks to show you the ropes at living again.
I told her to stop whining and that she at least had another guy--oblivious as he is--waiting for her. We can't get everything in life now can we, I said.

The second call came from a distressed John, telling me about unrequited love and loneliness. Great. It had not yet been 11 am and I was realizing that not only was my life a mess, but so were the lives of my friends. I fervently brushed my teeth that morning as if they were to be judged by a panel of teeth specialists and was in such high spirits!

And then the third call came from asshole. After two weeks of not speaking, he decided to call me late Wednesday night. Since we were both drunk, nothing profound or life altering was mentioned. Dumbfounded, the only thing I could say was "umm, yeah, so how are things?" Thursday night he called again right when I was coming out of a club. Drunk again, I promised to call him later that night. I did, and we spent most of the conversation talking about the weather and only until the end did we start to get somewhere:

Me: So what took you so long to call?
Asshole: I wanted to make you suffer.
Me: Suffer? This make come as a shock to you, but I don't stay up on lonely nights thinking and writing romantic novellas about you. (HA!)
Asshole: Novellwhat?
Me: So what is it that we're doing now? We speaking to each other again?
Asshole: Umm, we... we... SO! how's school?

The phone call ended with him promising to call me this morning, which he did. We made plans to hook up tonight. I lay in bed for another hour using my hands as imaginary scales to weigh the pros and cons of seeing him: Do I see him again, possibly risking the chance of sleeping with him again and getting emotional distraught when I see that he is interested in nothing more than casual relations with me, or do I pretend to have better things to do, saving any self-respect or notions of self-worth I may have left?

I opted for the latter, and at 5 am I'm wondering if that was the right choice. I'm sitting here trying to convince myself that this is just an ordinary case of insomnia but I know that it's much more than that. This is loneliness. Insomnia has you painting or watching MASH reruns at 2am; loneliness has you chain-smoking out your window counting stars and listening to Love Songs on the Coast. At this point I'm wondering if sacrificing my self-respect for a latenight embrace is really such a terrible thing.

Tuesday, December 25, 2001

It's all about the Fam

I've been reading David Sedaris, a gay Greek author, these past few days trying to get in touch with my greekness. It's not as if I purposely renounce my heritage, it's just something I don't think of that often unless it has to do with nude beaches, wine, and summer love.

You would think that a Greek immigrant family would cling on to tradition as if it were something holy or, for the more superficial bunch of us, something goldplated and decorated with rubies. Sure we have our collection of acropolis pictures mounted on our walls and a few worry beads tucked away in our closets, but tradition is a foreign to us as is the concept of minimum wage to a 13 year old boy in a Singaporean sweatshop stitching soccer balls together. I've been living with these people for 20 years and we have yet to establish a Meatball Monday, a typical Christmas Eve dinner, or something that would make one say "Oh those Nikolopouloses. There they go again with their annual weed gathering gala!"

I know I am not the first to feel as a stranger to one's own parents, but should I really find comfort in numbers? True, they are my family---linked by blood and DNA that has been bolstered with a few added chromosomes for body hair. I don't HAVE to love them, but I would like to know them.

I'd like to know what the hell my father was thinking when he flew over to sunny California and set shop in covina of all places---the underbelly of citrus fields and auto body shops---opening up a restaurant with his many other Greek brethren. Where did his sleep his first night? Did people gawk at his one, immense eyebrow and ask whether there was a traveling circus in town? Was he in love at 28 when marrying my mother and, if so, why was he not smiling in his pictures?

I'd like to know how giddy my mother must have been at the thought of America, fanning herself on the hay on her mother's house/farm in Greece, dreaming up a loftier life with servants and stainless steel silverware and indoor plumbing. I'd like to see her climbing down the airplane railings in her blonde hair, a scarf around her neck and a cigarette already poised in her mouth, all the Hercules and Alexis's of her life meandering somewhere in her hometown Argos catching octopuses, and my father waiting with itchy palms to cart her off to their newly bought suburban home with yellow shag carpet. I want to know what the first thing she ate was. Was it something extremely all American and greasy like chicken fried steak or grits or hashbrowns washed down with a milkshake? My mother's somewhere in the kitchen right now packing away tonight's Xmas Eve dinner leftovers in rose colored plastic wrap and I'm almost tempted to ask, but I know that the question will only be used against me:

Why do you care? You don't care about your mother. You're gay and don't believe in God. THAT'S how much you care about your mother...

Then a few minutes later with a glossy look in her eyes:

Actually, if you WANT to know, your father and I, being unimaginably thrilled and tickled with excitement by the unlimited possibilities of our new life in America, decided to shack ourselves up in a dingy Hollywood hotel for days in which your brother, as you can tell by his less than honorable driving history and his even less honorable taste in women, was conceived in...

After an hour of my mother chastising me and my attire, my hair, my earring, my stubble, and my less than masculine walk, I drove to church with my father for Xmas Eve tonight and the following conversation ensued:

Dad: You know, you should go to church more often. It's not like God hasn't noticed that you've been playing hooky every Sunday for the past two years.
(At this point I don't know which disturbed me more: my father talking about God as if he noticed things or that he said playing hooky)
Me: Yeah dad, I'm sure God is incredibly pleased and impressed by the immense talent and effort it requires of one to strap on a tie and fake a look of spiritual interest for a good 45 minutes. God forbid we go feed the homeless for once or at least jot down the number for one of those Susan Surandon Help-Feed-The-Poor-Children-of-Guatemala infomercials.
Dad: Well I don't know about this Susan or Guatemala stuff, but I DO know that going to church is just something you have to do.
Me: You mean like getting a pap smear?
(At this point I don't know whether my father was more embarrassed by my mentioning of a vaginal procedure or the fact that my voice rose to a high level which seemed deserving of a vagina while mentioning it)

Overall, tonight has not been an altogether horrifying experience. I still don't know whether my parents were ever fans of the fellatio (nor would I want to) and my mother still has a habit of crossing me at the dinner table and praying--out loud--that I will soon see the light and realize that it makes God unhappy when I sleep with boys, but they're my family, and even if I don't have to love them. . .I do.

Merry Christmas and Good Luck
(I have a feeling that if you find any enjoyment from reading my blog, you'll need all the luck you can get with your family)

Saturday, December 22, 2001


Have you ever woken up in the morning and, just when you're about to stretch and look out the window, you catch a mental glimpse of what the hell it was you did last night and, feeling ashamed, cocoon yourself in your bedsheets, uttering a loud and painful UGHH! ?

I just about wanted to hang myself this morning. In an attempt to avoid the severity of last night's events, this blog will be written in List format as one would do for groceries or a supply check list at Le Sex Shoppe:

(1) I made out with a couple: a Yugoslavian, Dimitiri, with a heavy accent, and his boyfriend Michael, a joe blowish white guy who couldn't dance.
(2) As a drunken prank, Liberty and I thought that it would be amusing if we were to topple over Garrett's motorcycle. Instead, it made a LOUD thump which made us run before getting a chance to attach the I HOPE YOU GET HIV note I had proposed.
(3) I drove drunk.
(4) I drove drunk really fast on the freeway and killed my engine.
(5) I drove drunk really fast on the freeway and killed my engine because I did not put oil in it despite the fact that the little red oil thingie had been blinking away for the PAST MONTH...
(6) So I was towed at 4 am.
(7) But what hurt most this morning, more than kidney stones or colon cancer, is that around 5am, feeling down and blue and desperate, I left a voicemail for you-know-who saying I miss you, call me.


Thursday, December 20, 2001

Mental Vacations

Okay so nothing happened, which is something I should be grateful for considering that (A) Aaron is not an altogether strikingly gorgeous young man, (B) I would have felt the eeiou-you-dirty-drunken-whore-slut-you guilt feelings in the morning, and (C) I've supposedly reached that stage in my life where I realize that sex is not the greatest solution to all of my worries. We stayed up till 3 drinking beer of all things (and it was Bud Light; my motto is, if one must ABSOLUTELY resort to beer it should at least be a Heineken or Amstel or some other import for it reduces the white trash overtones of the whole affair) and playing party jenga. Stimulating. I woke up with a slight hangover in a bed that smelled like wet cockerspaniel and my jaw throbbing with pain [It seems that God really does exist and he has come to haunt me in the form of compacted wisdom teeth and what seems to be a paint stain on my forehead that will not, for the life of me, wash off (Last week I woke up and noticed a dark line running across my forehead and thinking I had fallen asleep on a wire, thought nothing of it. A week later, and after rubbing the sucker with soap, rubbing alcohol, and nail polish remover, I've decided that it is (A) an inconspicuous worm rummaging around my forehead or (B) oil paint smeared on my forehead which I forgot to remove and which was left to dry overnight)].

Can we say tangent?

So I spent most of the day today with John and Kirin, yet I feel as if I have cheated or somehow lied to them because my mind and thoughts were elsewhere for the most part; on a subject that TRULY does not deserve a nano second of my devotion, but I'm human and I'm weak and I'm as fragile as a kidney. So I thought about asshole.

It began when I found, while cleaning out my car, one of the numerous love lists or love manifestos I wrote to him during our short-lived relationship. Ironically, it was nestled next to our "love lotion" that we kept in the glove compartment for, you know: just in case. It read:

Angelo's List of Major "No-No's"

1) Lying (white lies included)
2) Being intentionally ignored or avoided
3) Being told that I will be called/met somewhere and not being actually called back or met at the designated location
4) Going out with ex-girlfriend (or ex-boyfriends, if any)!!
5) Extensive gawking at females in my presence
6) Paging 3 times in one day and none of them being returned.
7) Having feelings of abandonment which result to a general feeling of being unloved and secondary...

This then lead to montages of the past, stroked with the brush of nostalgic idealism of course. I would go into horrific detail but I see this only being an open playground for a certain individual who has recently arrived from Berkeley (ahem) and who would only seize this as material for a certain comedic bit that is loosely, LOOSELY, based on ME.

But the sad thing is that I really shouldn't be wasting my time rehashing this past. This whole thing is as dead as Pee Wee Herman's career as a babysitter, but here I am on a Thursday morning, 4 am, typing away at the drama. This guy ended up to be, as his nickname truly indicates, an asshole. What irks me most is how able one is in fooling me into believing that they care for me; how terribly convincing one can be with a few I-REALLY-like-you's, a teary-eyed latenight embrace, and hour long marathons of hand holding; and how incredibly susceptible we all are to the workings and trickery of the heart...

Wednesday, December 19, 2001

My Room

Come down to my room
I was thinking about you
and I made a pass at myself

These past few days have been as thrilling as....(well I really can't think of quite the write simile, but I'm sure something with the words snail, oreo cookie, and tragically lame would do it some justice). It's been the past four days actually that I've been hiding out, as if i were in quarantine, in my house. My "procedure" last week has left me a little disfigured (i.e., my right cheek plateaus to the staggering height paralleling that of Mt. Kilimanjaro in East Africa. Tonight I put my vanity aside and saw Vanilla Sky with my friend Danee..I have nothing inspirational to say of the movie besides that Tom remains as gorgeous as ever..
Besides that, there is nothing spectacular about these past four days, no great vicodin induced epiphanies. I have not had a cigarette nor a drink and I think I am going mad. I have not had sex in what it seems like a month...and I think I am going mad. I have not had any one of interest call me lately nor have I met any one of interest...and I think I am going..... well, you know.

I've noticed that spending time with myself and my thoughts has become and increasingly difficult task. I had always relished just "hanging out" with myself. I could easily amuse myself, whether it be painting on my walls, staring at my walls, hanging posters on my walls, etc. etc., but now I think I'm actually terrified of being by myself. And when I am, I find artificial ways of not being alone, i.e., going online, watching tv., speaking on the phone. Last night when i was fed up with myself, I sat my ass by the fireplace and was determined to read The Greek Passion by Nikos Kazantzakis....... It sucked ass.
I just couldn't concentrate. To make matters worse, I was reminded of the note my Philosopher professor gave me where she posted a letter grade and a remark grade which focused on my strengths and weaknesses in the classes. It read, weakness: Needs to focus and concentrate more. Mind runs wild.

And so I thought: Hmm, is it possible that Garrett's ADHD, as if it were an airborne disease, drifted out from his nostril somewhere and planted itself within me?

I have changed though. I don't write anymore, and when I do it resembles something intended for standup--i miss my sappy poems. I never take long walks on cloudy days thinking about the absurdity of life or animal rights activism or the similarities between Buddha and Jesus Christ. . .I think about falling in love for the most part and what hair color would best suit the weather this season. I think I have become obsessed with the idea of falling in love that it's taken priority over every other thought or goal in my life. I've turned into one of those people I detested, those people who are so preoccupied with others, those people whose happiness depends on others, those people who don't write anymore, those people who can't sit still to read The Greek Passion, those people who spend four days in their homes doing nothing but calling up their ex loves and wondering if they think of them at all ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

:::::At this point I bust a Stigmata and blood starts leaking from my temples:::::

I just think I REALLY need a cigarette.
SIGH. I think I better find myself in an emotionally saturated and intense relationship soon or I better quit with the Whatever It Takes or Waiting To Exhale kinda movies...

Yay!: just received phone call from Aaron. He wants to drink. He wants to drink with me. He not too cute. But he have muchos GRANDE nice new house where he wants to take me to drink. Hmm. it is 1:17. This is potentially dangerous.


Friday, December 14, 2001

I Left my Wisdom Teeth and Depression Somewhere in a Dixie Cup Together

With a massive hangover this morning from clubbing with John and Henry at Oasis, I went and had my wisdom teeth removed. It's been some 10 hours later and my lips are still numb and look ALL Angelina Jolie-esque: i.e., FAT. As strange as this sounds, I was actually looking forward to being sedated. I've always wondered what it was like and now i know: it's like taking a freaking nap, but in this case, my legs and arms were strapped down, an IV plunged into my arm, endless wires curled around my fingers and wrists, and the annoying BEEP BEEP of my heart beating echoing around in the room. It was not cute at all. The dentist, I mean, "oral surgeon", was such a DICK. I felt like a chimpanzee strapped to an operating table, being experimented on for shampoo or hand lotion. Throughout the entire procedure, not one word of comfort or encouragement was uttered from his lips.
At least I got some Vicodins.

So I've slept for most of the day, trying to forget that my face looks as if it were ran over by a thoroughbred. And yet despite this, I woke up and was in a great mood. It's one of those moods that makes you want to dress up and walk out into the world in a new pair of shoes. These past few months I've been increasingly nihilistic and cynical about the possibilities of me finding happiness. There had been a feeling of despair hovering over me, slowing making its move on me like a moss. I had been terrified of failure this semester in school. I was terrified at the idea that now, after "having someone" for those brief 5 months in my life, I would be alone. I was incredibly terrified that I would just sulk and sulk and sulk to the point where life would just tire of me and pass me by. I am terrified that nothing new will happen.
But here I am, my cheek pulsating with pain, a B in both my Bio and Physics class, completely alone, and I really don't give a damn. I know that, in that really cheesy and cliche yet entirely true way in which we try to solace ourselves, things will always work out.

(1) Acceptance letters from Berkeley and LA
(2) Taking a fiction writing class next semester
(3) Seducing my stunningly gorgeous Philosophy professor
(4) Greece in the summer
(5) A new pair of shoes

Wednesday, December 12, 2001

So I started writing a poem at Starbucks earlier tonight when I should have been working on my philosophy paper that is due tomorrow, and instead of feeling happy that I had the urge to write one (it's been a while), I felt like tearing the damn thing to pieces halfway through it, partly because it made me incredibly sad and partly because it made me FURIOUS at myself...

I wish I were a Leonard Cohen
song you sang to your self
on early Sunday mornings
lying in your bed,
in those white sheets of yours,
in that dirty embrace.

I wish I were a Leonard Cohen
song that made you cry.

Something like Chelsea Hotel
but a little more masculine---
Something to match my eyebrows.

I wish I were a Leonard Cohen
song you'd carry with you always
like a charm pinned to your underwear.

On days like these I wish I WERE
a charm pinned to your underwear
because I begin to feel your absence
work on me like a sore throat.

I wish I were a Leonard Cohen song...

I romanticize everything in my life to the point where it exceeds the cheesiness of a Disney movie. I don't wish I were a Leonard Cohen song, I wish I would stop setting myself up for habitual dissapointment. I wish I had a backbone. I wish I had a self esteem. I wish I knew how to let go. I wish I didn't stay up late on Thursday nights
listening to sappy love songs and thinking about the great love I never had.

Fuck you Leonard Cohen.

Monday, December 10, 2001

Screw Vodka, It's RedBull and Biology

Just downed two Redbulls and I'm feeling the jitters already. I've got to memorize a semester of genetics, animal and plant species, sexual reproductive parts, and everything else that deals with tree hugging for my bio final tomorrow. And if that weren't enough, I paged asshole tonight (Since I'm "over" Garrett, he will now be referred to as asshole). Actually, I had planned to write a post titled "I Lied" (catchy eh?) about this dramatic scene Garrett and I had in WeHo right after I went on that huge spiel about how I had gotten over him and noticed that single protruding eyebrow hair....(refer to a few posts back)... In short, I ended up running after him (literally) down santa monica while herds of queens mocked me...Without getting into much detail because I am actually quite embarrassed about the whole affair, I told him how I had spent a year of my life (possibly more) doting on him, thinking that I was in love, and was amazed at how impartial and cold he was towards me---especially after we had spent really intimate moments with each other (maybe they were only intimate and special to me?) And he, as if we were reenacting Old Yeller (me the pitiful dog of course), said harsh things to me. Namely, he was over it, that he no longer wanted to do the gay thing (as if one chooses!), and that I should just "let him be" (how 19th century). And like the stupid drunk I am, I kept pursuing him as if I wanted to be embarrassed more. At that point, he picked up a stick and hit me over the head (not really, but it would have made for a really dramatic ending).
That night, tho we were not speaking, I slept at his apt (I was too drunk to drive) and in the morning I left without saying goodbye...
Since, I have not heard from him, but today, for some odd reason, I felt the urge to page him...
Me: Hey Garrett, I was sitting here studying for my Biology class, more specifically, the mating rituals of Bonobos in the wild and oddly enough I thought about you. (How's that for originality?) Well, I was just thinking about how shitty it was the way we said our goodbyes a few weeks back and I still don't feel quite right about it. So if you'd like, call me (does that make me sound to desperate?), but if you don't, that's cool too (now does that make me seem extremely powerless and hopeless?)..Gotta go..bye. (Ok, what retard says "gotta go" on a voicemail??)
So there you have it....two hours later, two redbulls later, 16 more chapters to read, and asshole has not called. I really shouldn't be stressing about this. As John said, he really doesn't play such an influential role in my life. The thing is, I wish he would. I wish for once that I could have a relationship that wasn't superficial; one that was genuine and significant without me having to mold it into one. The mind is REALLY deceiving. In my case, it's been able to convert an ex gay porn star with a speech impediment who gave me scabies (how's that for fucking honesty!) into someone that I thought I loved...

As Kirin would say: Oh HELL no.

Thursday, December 06, 2001

Have you ever had one of those enlightening moments, especially when it's been an incredibly hectic and overwhelming day, when you drop your keys or happen to catch a glimpse of your sullen face in a mirror, and stop for a second and internally ask: What the hell is it that I am doing??? (in an existential sense that is).

I had one of those today, and if you haven't, well Oprah talks about them nonstop (I think hers occur en route to her gold plated refrigerator). I had spent all morning worrying about my Physics exam, planning my study session for the Humanities class I'm TAing for, running around campus getting things signed, handouts xeroxed, meeting with my supervisor, meeting with my Psych professor, and all the other immense BULLSHIT that life is made of. During a half hour break, I rushed over to my house to grab a binder I had forgotten that morning and on my way out the door, I tripped.
"What the hell is it that I am doing???" I asked myself while caressing the floor as if it were the bare ass of a sturdy and ash-blonde carpenter named Chad. It was one of those moments when everything becomes still and ethereal as if it were a tampon commercial. What have I turned into? I had always prided myself by the fact that I had always avoided the rat race, the autopilot existence, that endless samsara of deadlines and time windows and post-its decorating your mail file with things like "Angelo, your time-sheets are late again.... Angelo, please refer to your tutorial handbook, specifically the section regarding TARDINESS.... Angelo, please check your personal life at the door. Any attempts to mention personal dilemmas will be disregarded and given a ask-me-if-I-give-a-fuck?-look. Thanks!..." written on them.

I wanted to be that guy who took the time to smell the roses damn it!!

Well, ok, it wasn't THAT bad. I picked myself up and, a veggie burger and strawberry milkshake later, was good as new. On a lighter note, today I had my last humanities session and was given a thank you card from my students....Here are some of the highlights:

The guys wrote:

Angelo, You're MONEY (I still don't understand that one)

Thanx Dude. Laterz

Thanks for passing out handouts.

Thanx 4 just letting me sign in.

Peace out!

oh and... crack kills

The girls on the other hand wrote novels and tattooed the thing with hearts and smiley faces:

Angelo---you have been a tremendous help keeping me up to date when I missed class. thanks for being so sweet and accomodating..Take care! =)

Thanks SO much for all the energy you put forth for us kids. You're a real good teacher; very natural. You helped me see things in different ways...God bless..

and my personal favorite:

You are sexy! =)

SIGH. What else can we do but depend on others for those slight glimpses of happiness we get in life?

(1) No prospective boyfriends in sight.
(2) Finals week coming up.
(3) Still smoking.
(4) Pant size dropped to an astonishing 32!
(5) Still lonely.

Saturday, December 01, 2001


It's been a VERY long time since I've stayed in on a Friday night. Amazingly, I had no motivation to go out tonight even tho there were three not so bad sounding possibilities: (1) go to party with john, (2) go to down town disney with Jen and Jessica (straight girls from bio class), and (3) drink a bottle or two of wine with Liberty. I painted instead. I've been working on a Kandinsky-esque piece I've titled Fish and Arrow, mainly because it has a huge fish and arrow running through it.
My drive for life has gone down the drain like a poorly digested broccoli stem. I don't want to sound like Aerosmith or anything, but I feel so damn jaded. Today, for instance, I saw a three car accident unfold in front of me while driving and without issuing forth a "eeeeek!", or a "oh shit", or even a GASP, I curved around them, lit a cigarette, and tried to find a good oldies song on the radio to fit my sober mood. Last night I was walking down Hollywood Blvd. with Garrett---the fucknut I would have ordinarily bent over backwards for---and, while stepping over Sting's star and simultaneously being offered speed by a man in a hot pink wheelchair, the only thing I could think of was getting my ass in bed.
And this brings me to another major Angelo conclusion which I came to while eating french fries with BBQ sauce at McDonalds with Garrett: I'm over him. I was even tempted to say it, there, then, like this: "I'm over you Garrett". I was surprised at first. I lay my head on my hands and stared at him, trying to uncover any of those warm feelings---like when you have to pee---I used to get from looking at him. But nothing. Instead I noticed that he had a very unsightly solitary hair booming out from inbetween his eyebrows and that he was also not wearing socks.
He tried kissing me that night, and tho I went along with it for a little while, it no longer felt right. So I turned my cheek towards him and tapped it. "What's this" he said, giving me one of those perplexed looks my dog gives me when I point to his shit on the carpet with my finger and a stern "NO!". "It's me not being in love with you anymore" I said. He thought I was joking...

So there you have it. Overturned SUVs, free drugs, and Garrett have lost their appeal to me. I've given up my search for love and will now spend my friday nights painting things with fishes and arrows in them. Pray for me. Please.