Wednesday, February 27, 2002

Quick I'm-at-work-but-bored Post

1) I woke up this morning and found a miscall from Nick around 1:40 a.m. and the following voicemail:

Nick, sounding belligerent and embarrassingly queeny: Hey Angelo! I am SO drunk OFF my ASS! (mumble, mumble, mumble). So yeah, just wanted to see what you were doing. But wait, ha!, it's almost two, you're probably sleeping...What was I thinking? ha! So yeah, call me when you get this. BYE!

Translation: Hey Angelo! I am SO drunk OFF my ASS and incredibly easy and incredibly willing to do ANYTHING (mumble, mumble, mumble). So yeah, I'm completely head over heels for you and just wanted to see if you were awake so that I could find some witty way to ask you over to my apartment. But wait, ha! it's only two and you're probably just disregarding my call, even tho you will tell me tomorrow that you were asleep. So yeah, now that I realize I've made an ass out of myself, I'll use the "it was the alcohol" excuse as a way to salvage any dignity I might have left tomorrow and give you an overly exubernet BYE! so it seems that I'm carefree and confident, even tho I'm not...

Now, you may think I'm being a little bit too cruel, but I know such behavior all too well because it reminds me of myself. The voicemail made me cringe for two reasons: (1) I felt embarrassed for him and (2) it made me realize how highly unattractive calling someone so late, drunk, as a means of getting one's attention is...

2) I was supposed to meet John for lunch today during my one hour break from class and work. I don't know what happened, either I was too sleep deprived or preoccupied with the idea of spending the next six hours in a basement which is called the Learning Assistance Center, but I entirely forgot. John, you know that if I were to ever purposely neglect, hurt, betray you, I would make it as blatant as possible. Today was just an Oopsie, so Oopsies! =)

3) I have a Chemistry exam tomorrow for which I have not studied for. You would think that I would be sweating balls at this point, but it's times like these in which I remind myself of my incredible good looks and feel appeased that no matter what happens, I will always have a shot of being a successful hand model...

Tuesday, February 26, 2002

Forgot to Mention:

So I'm taking a poetry workshop at my highly prestigious school and my professor wants me to compile a bunch of poems---a chapbook---to send out to publishers. He say's that I've got a "good shot", oh and that I should play the gay card more... So I've decided to write a chapbook with nothing but love poems.
Possible Titles:

A Book not for the Lonely or Brokenhearted

Love Poems for Nobody in Particular

I don't like either of them much. I need something with pissaz. Something that would make one trample over a kid with down syndrome to get to. Maybe, "Cock and Balls: Love Poems from a Gay"

Oh my, mom would just be gleaming with joy over that one: "Oh yes...Angelo...Cock and Balls?...You've read it?...My my, look at the time..."

So here's numero 1. Comments would just make me do a cartwheel...You've got my email addie.

Even If

I start seeing Rogaine
in your shower, you lose your way
with words, say what not

even if you forget
our anniversary, overdraw
on your ATM, leave the
toilet seat up,

even if you scratch
down there too much, start to play
golf every Friday, say let’s watch
the Lakers
rather than let’s have sex,

even if you never become
dental assistant of the year, you grow
a half-assed goatee, begin to wear
I Love Hooters t-shirts over to mom’s,

even if you no longer write
me Was thinking of you notes, call me
just "the roommate", think that a predicate
is something that eats other animals,

even if you sing along to Roxette’s
It Must’ve Been Love, gain ten pounds,
become disfigured in a Wisdom Teeth
removal procedure gone awry,

even if you swear that
this has NEVER happened before,
eat grits, leave your dirty underwear
balled up on the bathroom floor,

even if you became
a Republican, wore flannel,
stopped whispering I love you babe
in your morning breath,

even if you
drank domestic beer
from a can,
lost a few in Vegas,
only had a bus pass,
cut me off when I spoke,
answered everything
with a shrug,
sold your guitar,
bought a volvo,
slept with my best friend,
looked down at your feet
too much,
faced the other way in bed,

you’re the best thing that’s happened
to me since, as you would say, green Jell-O
because you held my hand one morning
while you ate cereal, a drop of milk climbing
down your chin, and admitted to not being
perfect but now had a reason to try.

Conversation earlier with bible thumper guy in Chemistry class:

Him: Do you believe in corporeal punishment?
Me: Corporeal what?
Him: You know, the death penalty and stuff.

I've always known that coming to a junior college was nothing to brag about, let alone add to my resume with pride, but as of today it's something that I want to immediately rid myself of like a bad haircut or a speech impediment.

It has become painfully aware to me today that I attend a stereotypically junior college. This morning, while I was stuffing my face full of hash browns in the Campus Cafe, a squadron of guys were playing pool and bopping their heads to an L.L Cool J song that was streaming out of our circa 1982 Juke box, the kind you would find in cheesy pizza places like Round Table. [ On a side note, I usually like to study in the campus cafe area while eating, and this little bitch who looks like a 12 year old with breasts, feeds the damn thing five dollars each time, selects the raunchiest of songs (i.e., Push..Push it REAL Good), turns the damn thing as loud as it can get, and prances around shaking her poor excuse of a fully developed ass while I'm attempting to memorize the Periodic Table of Elements...I'm sure she's probably with DPS (Disabled P-something Students, but, to quote the Original Kings of Comedy, or if you were from Brooklyn, the Original Kaangs of Comedy, when a kid old enough to walk, a kid old enough to get FUCKED UP].

But it's not just the stupid comments and misused words, the on-campus Christian Coalition, the Juke Box, the LL Cool J, or the retard with a bad taste in music. What tops it all of is the hacky sack. Junior college and the hacky sac is like a WeHo fag and a white poodle named Princess, a Plumber and an exposed ass-crack, and, yes I'm going to say it, a nigga with a bus pass. Why would you do this to yourself??? I'm at a loss for words.

I'm in the computer lab right now contemplating whether or not I should walk next door to the 7-11 and buy cigarettes. Not like I can smoke freely anywhere on campus without getting a hateful look, that have you heard of second hand smoke, fucker? look.
I'll probably burrow myself somewhere behind a bush, look down at my exposed toes, and wonder why it is I never meet anyone interesting on campus.

Monday, February 25, 2002

Does admitting to someone that you're not ready for a relationship really work, or does it just end up sounding like a cowardly and convenient way of saying you're just not interested?

I've been tossing this question around in my head for the past few days, trying to figure out what I'm going to do in regard to Nick. In my case, the I'm not ready for an emotionally intense relationship card is not a cope-out but, sadly enough, true. No matter how much I yearn for someone to wait outside of my work, eager to see me and hold me, I know that I'm mentally and psychologically inept at the moment. I need to have a romantic relationship with myself: talk long walks in the afternoon, read books underneath trees, laugh at my own jokes. I don't know if we have to love ourselves before we love others, but I know that loving anyone is much too big of an
ordeal--responsibility even--for me.
I can't half-ass my emotions.

I was planning on dealing with this whole Nick affair the best way I know how: avoidance. I thought that if I didn't return a few phone calls, a few emails, the whole thing would dissipate and be lost wherever it is that could've been relationships go, but that would only remind myself of a certain someone who never returned my phone calls, my emails, and disregarded me as if I were a starving Sudanese child lying next to a vulture. I know how it feels to be that starving Sudanese child and would never want anyone else to feel like that on account of me.

Like knowing you have a cavity or an embarrassing STD, I know that the only way this will go away is by being honest and dealing with it. I just don't want to sound like a 13 year old girl at summer camp telling her boyfriend of three days that her heart's just not what it used to be since her two week relationship with Roger last summer...

In other news, Garret (asshole) emailed me the other day, apologizing for not returning my page. He said that he wanted to but is wary of me because of all the drama I create. It seems that one of the many perks of stupidity is that you can rewrite history. If sleeping with my bestfriend, ditching me on my birthday for the "EX," and perpetually lying isn't drama, I don't know what is. Wanting to hold someone?

If I had paid more attention to my Literature class I'd go on about the irony of the situation, but I didn't so consider yourself lucky.

Friday, February 22, 2002

Fuck Part 2

I don't know what got into me---I just felt like being poetic, bohemian, and woe-is-me-ish...
Nothing THAT profound happened: had fun with Kirin in Berkeley, chipped her tooth as she was about to drink a Smirnoff, no biggie. Spent a night at a Russian party with only RUSSIANS teaching me how to drink a vodka shot properly, downing it with a pickle(Also, we had to take off our shoes before entering house; was kinda bizarre---meeting strangers at a party with shoes off that is). Had existential moment in the bathroom but don't feel like talking about it much. Was involved in a PETA protest for ten minutes, protesting against Neiman Marcus' fur section in Union Square. Finally went to City Light Bookstore; bought Requiem for a Man with Two Dicks, had picture taken by Jack Kerouac street: my OTHER personality...

Am probably not making much sense tonight; had too much to drink.
Went to Abby with John and Nick. He, Nick that is, brings me back gifts from his weekend in Utah: (1) a book of poetry and (2) a 2002 Utah Olympics silver flask. What does it mean when someone, who doesn't know you all that well, brings you back gifts? He thinking about you? He want something MORE from you? Or is he just being nice?
I could possibly buy the "just being nice" excuse, but he called me, after I said goodbye to him, asking why I was so hard to read. Now this makes me wonder. Honestly, I feel as if I have led on the guy. At first, yes, I was interested. But now I find that he is not the one for me...I need someone with some umph, some aggression, some "chase me because i'm unattainable..."

I'm hopeless.

Paged Garrett tonight after some 2 months or so, I think, of not talking. I am very disturbed by how uncivil we have become. I can understand that what we had, whatever the hell it was, didn't work out, but I can't understand the fact that we can no longer speak to each other. I don't know what would make him do this. It honestly hurts to know that someone you cared for deeply can live, comfortably, without ever speaking to you again.
Can we say OUCH?

I've had much too much to drink; had cum shots (and that IS a drink!) and a tequila shot while I watched Janet Jackson give a lap dance to a fan going through orgasmic fits...

Quote of the Night brought to u by A.E. Housman:

Folks, let me tell you.
Birthing is hard
Life is Mean
Just make sure
You get some lovin' inbetween...

Tuesday, February 19, 2002

The Trip: Part 1

Like the Wailing Wall for the Jews, Mecca for the Muslims, or Magic Mountain for the suburbanites, San Francisco is sort of a spiritual place for me. And not for all the obvious reasons: the rainbow flags, the Gap mega structures on every corner, the cheap bars---no, it's something deeper than that. It's something that takes me back three years when, at the age of eighteen, I walked into Union Square with my mother and had no idea what it meant to be alive; what it meant to be someone's child; what it meant to be gay.

It all began with Jack Kerouac and the night I stayed up past 5 a.m. to read that last lines of On the Road:
"...the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody, know what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty, the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty."

After that I became engrossed---fixated, obsessed---with anything relating to beat culture: Read all the novels. Read the poems, the Buddhist papers. Bought the Jack Kerouac CD box set, wore dirty jeans and converse. I was some fifty years late, but I wanted to be part of all that history, the intensity, the jazz, the hitchhiking, the boozing , the love affairs; but mostly, I wanted to be one of them, the new age prophets of America searching for the Truth that was to be found somewhere in “all that raw land that rolls into one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast.” I knew, from even within my bedroom walls and my mother who tried her best to keep me within them, that there was a freeway of life that I wanted to be a part of. I was ready to pack my bags and board the first freight train heading east ‘cause, god damn it, I was getting older and the world just wasn’t about to wait around for me.

I had visions of traveling through places like Kansas and Wyoming, the fields stretching out like an endless brown blanket the way they appear from within an airplane window. I would share stories with old men who, rough handed and drunk, would migrate from state to state looking for a better luck and a job that paid enough for the month’s rent and the month’s wine. I would hang my legs over the piers of San Francisco, New York, even the river piers of New Jersey, and with the smell of dust and oil in my lungs I would know what it meant to be mortal and be ok with that.

You would think that when I finally made it up to Frisco I’d wring myself free of my mother’s stronghold and roam the streets of Chinatown in search of my Jack, but I didn’t. I was convinced that I was Jack; in need of my Neal Cassidy, my Dean Moriarty. And I was convinced that he would find me and that I would be saved. I stood boggle-eyed on the deck of the Alcatraz Tour Boat my mother insisted we take, waiting any minute for a man’s hand to tap my shoulder. On the Powell & Mason cable cart ride, I insisted that I stand on the outside and lean my body towards the ongoing traffic as to make myself more visible, my mother clutching onto my jacket all the while. During the afternoons while my mother, after feeling sun-stroked and queasy, took naps, I would climb down from our motel and into Union square to sneak a smoke. This was my chance, I thought. This is where I would meet him in his soiled brakeman shirt with someone else’s name written on the left breast pocket, and we would run off and hide ourselves in a seedy attic for the night and part of next morning, talking about the dharma and our past lives as owls or prairie dogs or Siamese cats and the families that fed them in Thailand. . .
It had to happen, I told myself and sat watching the traffic pass by, the smell of dust and oil already well in my lungs. . .

(To be Continued)

Saturday, February 16, 2002

Am in San Fransisco and it's raining...
in coffee shop...
feeling kinda blue....
looked at art all day---mind else where...
don't need to tell you where it was. It should be self evident by now....

Nostalgia sucks

Wednesday, February 13, 2002

Oi Vey

Sometimes I wish I were a gossiping yenta so that I could do nothing but bitch about my life and arthritis.

I hate my life. There, I said it. I know this is not new, nothing that hasn't been said before, but it's true. I sometimes wish I could wake up in a cheerleader's body on her way to Daytona Beach for spring break (ok, I stole that one for the made for HBO movie Wit. See, my life sucks so hard, I can't even come up with my own jokes).

There's really no should I call it..THING, I guess, that could make me say "Oh here! *BING BING* This is WHY my life sucks...Here is the thorn in my paw, the pube in my salad!

I have NO idea what I'm talking about...

Well, today for instance, I was smoking outside of my class when I see blonde boy coming towards me. Blonde boy is this guy with whom I've had repeated staring competitions with. I've seen him many times on campus and he does this thing where he turns his head at me, smiles, lowers his head for a few paces, and then again smiles at me. So of course I think to myself, oh my god this guy is completely head over heels for me. Right? So today I see him and begin to prepare myself for our staring marathon where we silently and telepathically communicate our innermost desires and dreams to each other, but today, for some reason, he took one look at me, brushed his messy blonde hair to the side, and walked away.
UGH! What was it, I thought? Was some of the salad I had for lunch stuck in my teeth? Had I lost my appeal? Had he found someone new he liked to stare at?!?!
I looked down at my cigarette and felt like screaming after him: I can quit!

Oh well, on to more pressing issues:
1) Going to San Fran this weekend to reunite with my other fellow homo brethren.
2) Did really well on my lab practicum.
But here's the clincher:
3) Weight = 150 lbs.

And you better fucking do a cartwheel for me too.

Sunday, February 10, 2002


Thursday Night:
After driving through the Hollywood Hills--openmouthed and envious--with, once again, a supergulp of rum and coke, John, and a sleeping Henry in the back, I somehow ended up in Pacific Sands Motel in Santa Monica. The thing was, I drove back to covina from L.A and felt incredibly restless. The idea of spending a Thursday night locked inside my room reading On the Road, for the third time, just wasn't appealing anymore. "Something had to happen," I thought, "and if it wasn't gonna happen on its own accord, then by god, I was gonna MAKE it happen." So I called Liberty--my partner in debauchery--who was having a horrible night because she, like me, made the mistake of falling for someone who was hetero-confused.

Phone conversation at 3am:
Me: Liberty, let's go see the sunrise..
Liberty: Ummm....OK

So we ended up at a fabulously tacky motel by the Santa Monica pier. And Nick came over and spent the night. Now, for those of you who know me well, you would think: Angelo + guy who's interested + tacky motel = juicy blog. I wouldn't want to disappoint expectancies, but nothing happened; we just slept together. I'm, as the tired line goes, just not ready for anything more at this point.

I woke up that morning with the unfamiliar weight of someone's arm around me. We had missed the sunrise, but I didn't mind too much at that point. As always, I kept still and waited for someone else to get up, throw a pillow on my face, and start the day.
I said goodbye to Nick early that morning, because Liberty had to be at the LA Convention Center where she would be a paid model for some massive hair convention that's being held this weekend. That day was Model Prep day. In other words, herds of hairdressing queens clad in black, frantically running about doing highlights, texturizing, and contemplating: "Do I want to go with an Americano look on this one or more of a German Eve look?" Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for the perfection of one's hair, but there was something about the size of this whole affair and the general intensity in the air that made me think we were organizing to save the world rather than split ends. Think about it, thousands of middle- to upper-class people getting together for a convention not to speak out against oppression or racism but perms and mullets. There's something profound to be said here, but I'll be damned if I know what that is.
I got free Sebastian hair supplies.

That night I went to a party in Riverside with my Turkish comrades, Vuslat and Ilknor, and spent most of the time trying to be persuaded to do a keg stand by an extremely attractive, hetero-curious frat boy who, if I may refer to my own posts, "was just dying to ask what it felt like." At one point, I spilt some beer on my shoes and issued out a dramatic GASP. He stopped trying to persuade me after that.

Even though I was completely drained and exhausted, I was suckered into going to Red Dragon by John who whined like the Asian wife he is, "I ALWAYS go wherever you ask me..come one..pppleeeaasseeee."
So, what happened last night was solely his fault, and I hereby relinquish myself of any responsibilities. To keep it short, I bumped into New Year's Eve guy (refer to Jan. 3 post) and, for some reason that is just COMPLETELY beyond me now, I kissed him again. OK, I know that things don't just happen, but honestly it just happened.
He told me that he had been thinking about me since New Year's and had felt incredibly stupid for not asking me for my number. So he gave me his number, and I had to save him under Nick 2 since Nick, as my phone harshly beeped and told me, was an already existing name. Drunk and silly, I looked down and thought: Hmph, there are two Nicks in my phone.

Now I'm home, looking out my window at the trees swaying in the Shakespearean wind we've been having today, listening to Bob Dylan's Knocking on Heaven's door. In a few hours I have to begin memorizing the characteristics of bacteria and fungi for my lab practical tomorrow, which I've heard is as gruesome and painful as an ingrown toenail.

But I must mention the highlight of my weekend first:

Me: I'm so sick of dating guys who don't even know what a predicate is.
John: You mean an animal that eats smaller ones??


Monday, February 04, 2002

The Death Rattle Shakes Again

My Goldfish, Sparkie, died today. After school, I went to go feed it but found it floating motionless, looking lame and tragic in its empty tank. The sad thing is I never wanted a goldfish to begin with. I always thought that fishes were such poor excuses for pets: (1) You can't pet them, (2) they don't perk their ears up or wag a tail when called, and (3) you can't make them fetch the daily tribune or walk backwards. I guess the way I feel about fishes is the way my parents must think of me: They're kinda just there doing nothing and, even tho you don't know why, you keep feeding them.

This goldfish--the recently departed Sparkie--was actually not intended to be a pet but as dinner for my brother's pirahnas. My brother is a sadist. He had bought two of the most ugliest pirahnas, placed them in a tank of ten or more defensless goldfish, and sat with his friends in anticipation for when the would dart off and tear one of the goldfish into little orange pieces. This is what they do for fun. That and wrestle with each other, grunting and panting in each others crotch. And here I thought that I was the gay one.

At any rate, the pirahnas, for some mysterious reason, died. My brother contends that someone had been tampering with the water filter, but I of course would know nothing of the sort. "They have water filters??" I said. So only one goldfish had managed to escape the jaws of those butt ugly, carnivirous pirahnas. And I adopted it, and loved it, and tried to pet it as it would go into convulsions and dart off, and then it went bye bye.

(Reality Check: I have a massive bio exam I should be preparing for, and here I am giving a eulogy for my fish).

In other news, I have finally decided that I absolutely HATE my poetry class. If I hear/read another poem with the words Consciousness, Anti-birth, and Sweet Darkness again I might as well plunge my head into the oven and claim that Sylvia Plath made me do it.

Also, I am considering volunteering for a month in the summer for a nonprofit organization called Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. Quickly, I would be spending a month on a 200-300 ft sea vessel patrolling of the coast of the Galapagos Islands or Cocos Islands in search of illegal pouchers, fishers, and other wrongdoers. The cool thing is that they have been known to sink plenty of these evil people's boats. I have always wanted to do something of this sort, and I feel that now, with UCLA coming up, this will be my only oppurtunity to fulfill my environmental activist dream. There's something about the idea of living on a ship for a month off the, what I'm told, incredibly beautiful coastland of the Galapagos Islands that tickles me with excitement...
But, then again, could I survive it?

Lastly, I spoke to Nick for quite a bit tonight. I think I am beggining to like him. He, as well, is beginning to tickle me with excitement. But then I have to ask myself again, could I survive another relationship?

Sunday, February 03, 2002

So Maybe I Was Wrong:

Either that or I just like to be proven wrong.
Something was definitely flaring last Thursday at TigerHeat, and for once it wasn't a bad case of herpes.

While dancing on a scaffold, which is something I don't usually do unless I'm SLOPPY drunk, I leaned in and said: So why haven't you kissed me already?
Nick: Just be patient.
Me: Pussy

Now, I don't know if it was the insult or the fact that I look incredibly volatile and charming when belligerently drunk, but he cornered me against a wall, pinned my hands above my head, and proved me wrong.

After watching my friend's band play at some coffee shop in Santa Monica tonight, Nick and I went to a bar again but nothing happened since two of my friends were with us. I guess we are performance shy in front of others. But I have something to confess, and it is bad. I left him around 12 o'clock, saying that I wasn't feeling too well and should go home and rest. Instead, I went over to Asshole's. I don't know what is wrong with me. Do I purposely want to screw up this possibility of having a HEALTHY relationship? Garrett and I just talked, but still, this was more than just a I Was in the Neighborhood Visit; this was a I Miss You visit. And I think the feeling was mutual. To make matters worse, Nick, being the emotionally sensitive and caring guy, calls me while I'm sitting with Garrett to see if I made it home safely. The guilt at this point was spreading over me like the latent stages of malaria.

It's times like these that make me want to lock myself in my room, renounce all food, water, and music, and decide what it is I really want...

Friday, February 01, 2002

We finally kissed.
At TigerHeat. On a scaffold. During Brittany Spear's "Slave".
And then we kissed some more.
And then I had to leave.
And then I sat at home thinking about him kissing me...

And now I'm thinking: "Damn, I should have stayed."