Sunday, March 31, 2002

Joshua Tree. . .Again

You would think that I'd be contemplating where we go when we die as I sat on the top of a mammoth red boulder overlooking nothing but miles of sand, Joshua trees, and an occasional rock climber, but, while Liberty was heaving out her breakfast over a cactus somewhere, my mind was preoccupied with the idea of forgiving and forgetting.

Recently, the two people who had taken turns at plunging searing hot rods into my back, have somehow found their ways back into my life. Adrianna has just returned from Rehab in Sacramento and is recovering from her nasty addiction to meth. She even speaks like one of those I've-been-to-rehab people now, saying things like I just take things one day at a time, and she was even wearing a It's All Goodshirt when I dropped by her house earlier today to wish her family a happy easter, which was strange: "Hi Mrs. Kneefel! Gosh, I haven't seen you since, well, since Adrianna's little 'vacation'. Oh, but I love what you've done with the kitchen!"
Honestly, I don't know what to do. I'd like to be supportive, but last year's events have made me distance myself from her; I sometimes feel as if she is a stranger now--someone I shared a desk with in Elementary and nothing more.

And then there's Garrett. After my I Hate You explosion in the car that one night, he called me, apologized, and asked if he could cash in on my offer to help him. Long story short, he's desperately trying to get himself out of the environment he's living in (i.e., Hollywood, drugs, and all that other madness), so he needed a ride to his parent's house so that he could plead with them to move back in. So I did give him a ride to and back Hollywood, and we spent most of the day together, the words "he's no longer your boyfriend" going off like a mantra set on repeat.

But I'm torn! A whole day in the desert, and I still haven't reached an epiphany on the matter. Forgive and Forget. Forgive and Forget...Yes, I know...but the forgiving is the easy part; it's the forgetting that makes me clench my teeth every time I'm near the both of them. For now I give them both clemency and grant them the right to be able to live in my presence, but like children whose parents attach to leashes and walk through the mall, there's only so far that they can go into my emotional terrain...

Friday, March 29, 2002

So I'm part of this online environmental action group that I joined because I thought it would alleviate my guilt for smoking, wearing leather, and eating an occasional shrimp or scallop. Ordinarily, they will send me emails informing me of the latest environmental scandal and usually an online petition which I sign even though I doubt anything good would come of it. But today I received the following email from them which left me a little bothered:

Angelo - In the past several months you took action on
the PetitionSite to make a difference, and opted to be
notified when your help is needed for urgent Environmental

Our records indicate YOU have NOT YET signed the:
OPPOSE OIL DRILLING in the ARCTIC National Wildlife Refuge petition.

And let me add that the capital letters were not inserted by me. I don't know if its the fact that they keep "records" of my petition signing or that I felt as if I was being scolded by my mother for not having hedged the bushes in the backyard, but that email really did rub me the wrong way. Not only do I have to fear harassment by Mormons, Life Insurance salespeople, and men in dark alleys named after petroleum jelly, but now environmentalists too?

Wednesday, March 27, 2002

Your Love is Kiiing

I could listen to Sade all day and do nothing but smoke self-rolled cigarettes and drink gin and tonic. Which I might as well be doing, since my Spring Break has pretty much been shot to hell because of this Siberian weather.

I spent the day at Venice with David the other day, and instead of making the conventional sand castle, we made the anatomically correct sand MAN. In a Weird Science moment, I expected him to lift himself out of the sand at any moment and ravish me right there among the sea gulls. Instead, David and I somehow found ourselves in, what a man who tapped on our window and propositioned us for sex called, Vaseline alley. Gripping!

I did meet a limey last night though. There was nothing extravagantly attractive about him, but I wanted to take him home with me and make him read me a bedtime story, over and over and over again...

I'm going to a Help Save Marine Life workshop in Long Beach tonight in which Randy Vasquez, actor from JAG, will be heading. So there's TWO possibilities:
(1) Randy falls hopelessly in love with me, and I land a guest role on JAG, or (2) I add to my wealth of knowledge of sea shells and kelp...

SNAP SNAP motherfuckin SNAP

find your queer
as folk personality

Monday, March 25, 2002

No More Drama

From the moment he opened the door and I saw him in his overgrown hair and sunken face, I knew that I had made a terrible mistake in agreeing to see him tonight. Yes, I had been waiting long for when we would see each other again face to face; I had so many questions that had gone unanswered, so many things that I had wanted to say, things that I wanted him to know, but sometimes it's the wanting that is more pleasurable than the getting itself.

He was more manic and neurotic than usual; the words kept streaming from out of his mouth but none were making any sense. He said the world was mad, grabbed something, a paper, then let it go. Said his motorcycle was impounded. He said that he had smoked a little too much weed; said that we would have to stop by a friend's apartment so he could grab his contact lenses, and we did.

It took over twenty minutes to get somewhere that should have only taken ten. He had me circle around Melrose Ave. and Santa Monica twice; he couldn't seem to remember where the street was. I watched him as he became confused among the street signs and lights and passing cars the way the blind feel disoriented and detached from their environment in a momentary spurt of sight, everything feeling foreign and threatening. This couldn't be the guy that I had lied next to in my bed, silent and still as to not wake him, I thought to myself as he signaled towards the right apartment building and played air-drums on my dashboard with his fists.

When we got inside the apartment, it was the smell that first got to me. It was nothing unpleasant or pungent but something that smelled cheap and artificial, like too much air deodorizer or really bad incense you buy from beggars on the street. It's the kind of smell that's meant to cover something up. Besides that, the room had all the trappings of a drug den: dim lights, a single mattress, or what seemed to be a mattress, on the floor, Christmas lights in the fireplace, lighters randomly placed around the room with no cigarette boxes lying next to them, overturned bottle caps, and the clincher, if one was needed, hypodermic needles.

I went inside the bathroom because (a) the large rum and coke I had downed on the way to Garrett's place had made me desperately want to pee, and (b) I desperately needed a silent place to curse at myself for being such an idiot. What the hell was I doing here? I asked myself as he was in the kitchen somewhere whispering to a man whose pasty skin and oily scalp told me that he belonged somewhere in a cave rather than in West Hollywood, and in an apartment two blocks from where the Oscars afterparty was being held.

We left, and after buying a pack of cigarettes to keep me from shrieking, I drove him, after no more than 45 minutes of are reunion, home. Dumbfounded, he sat in my car and asked what was wrong, so I let it all out in one long breath that I seemed to have been holding onto for over three months. I told him how the way he was acting was scaring me, how I had no idea as to who he was anymore. I told him how immensely stupid and idiotic I felt at how I had allowed myself to waste a year of me life on him, at how I had thought we had shared something special, something sincere. I told him that even though I should be angry at everything he had done in the past, all the lies, the betrayal, the hurt that he had caused, that I was more disappointed and saddened because he was not the Garrett, the clumsy guy in my high school weight training class who warned me that my smoking would one day kill me, that I once knew and liked. And it all came out in one uncensored heap. Word after word, I felt myself draining everything that I had been too scared or weak to admit from out of the place it had piled within me; that place we sometimes call a heart. And knowing it was all true, he stayed silent.

I wished him good luck with everything and said goodbye to him the way you would to soldiers on their way to war: sincerely and with finality thick in the air.

I drove off and headed towards the 101 and home, and for once without the feeling that I had to because it was getting late and my parents would worry, but because I wanted to be somewhere safe. It was early on a Sunday night, and all I could think of was spying into my parent's bedroom to see them sleeping. And it was this thought that kept me from crying when I realized, halfway through El Monte, that my first relationship, a year of my life, was based on what I wanted and not what I had.

And even though I'm not one who believes that things happen for a reason, it was reassuring to hear Mary J. Blige swearing off drama in her life as I drove east towards home, Garrett's last words, drive carefully, in my head the whole time.

Saturday, March 23, 2002

The Answer:

I do nothing. Why? Because I wasn't given the opportunity; he never called. In a sick way, I suppose he made things easy for me...for once.

It really is strange how my life revolves around waiting for my cell phone to ring. How I stare at it, and how it stares back at me with its one, immense eye. It's a sickness really; I feel plagued by my need for it to sound off its electronic beeps at me, as if each one was a song dedicated to me, each one a I love you, a I'm thinking about you. It sits on my bathroom sink, calm, cool, but, most of all, mute. White and limp, it's like a penis when not being used. It's like a Russian child in the aftermath of the fall of the Soviet Union: neglected, hungry, devoid of love and rosy cheeks. In a mustard-yellow wool sweater two sizes too big, I see it standing, openmouthed and shivering, by a defaced Yeltsin statue with nothing but a left arm remaining as it points towards the eastern skies. My cell phone is a fat S&M mistress named Deemonica. A call from my mother is just a session in teasing---the crack of the whip inches from my back. My cell is something that can make or break you. Like a strange accent or tight pants, it depends on circumstance.

It's just a connecting route off the 101 I wish more people would take because, even though it might not lead one to my heart or to any other pink cliches, it leads to possibilities and possibilities are what love songs, sad or sweet, are made of.

Thursday, March 21, 2002


After three years of not snorting anything through my nose, save for some Nuetrasweet on those particularly slow days, I succumbed to temptation, got down on my knees in Dublin's bathroom on Sunset for reasons other than the norm, and exhaled a Pulp Fictionesque "God Damn!!", to which a man in the next stall responded with a "that good huh?"

And let me tell you, drugs are bad. But not because they ruin your brain, lead you to seedy apartments in Encino, lower your libido, cause acne, or make you believe that going to Saddle Ranch on a Tuesday night is exciting. No, drugs are bad because they will force---force being the operative word---you to call your ex, that sublet who painted your walls an unsightly green and fled, and sound like a WeHo fag presented with an IQ test: confused and in desperation.

But something unexpected happened: he called me back next morning, wondering if we could see each other soon. Still dazed and a little lost after attempting to be Johnny Depp for a night, I fumbled for the answer, the right one that is, and could only respond with an uh huh .
So he is supposed to call me later on tonight so that we can make "plans".


What should I do? After two months of him, more or less, avoiding me, do I jump, like an orphan puppy, at the opportunity to see him? If I do, what should I expect from the encounter? Will we talk about the weather, school, the Laker's shot at the championship this year and avoid the more meatier of subjects, namely the insignificant fact that he skinned my skin and plunged me into the Dead Sea for kicks?

What do I do when I begin to feel myself being lost in the smell of the suntan lotion he always wears, when I begin to forgive and want feel his arms tighten around me the way they did many times before?

Walk away?

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

Through the Desert and Back Again

From being asked why I don't like pussy in Spanish from a cab driver named Juan to seeing an overly obese drunk man fall 30 steps down an escalator in Caesar's Palace, I'd have to say my Vegas getaway was quite the success. I didn't get to make my appearance on Taxicab Confessions, tears streaming down my cheeks as I told my rags-to-banana-republic life story, but I DID spend over $80 on rum and cokes, lost $20 more on Black Jack, and conquered my fear of elevators (freak accident when I was 12 left me in an elevator for over an hour and a bad case of chronic claustrophobia). Dana, the faghag of the bunch, had to hold my hand and count the floors off as we made it up to the 23rd floor.

But I have to warn my fellow single readers---and you KNOW you're all single---about the dangers of spending too much time with happy, touchy feely couples: There's only so many finger-pointings at each other while singing along to Sonny and Cher's I've Got You Babe that one can take before going postal and, as John says, pulling out your teeth and throwing it at them.

There were two couples with us this weekend...and we all shared a room. Chris and Steven, who have been together for well over a year, are the epitome of the happy gay couple who all of us sad gay singles despise with a passion. They are both beautiful, have pearly white teeth, dress alike, refer to each other as babe and hon, and wake up in each others arms after dreams of lilac fields and summer weekends in the Hamptons. I love them to death, but such displays of love and affection in front of someone who writes love poems to no one is like flashing a driver's permit in front of the 16 year old who failed The Test three times: begging for the bird and a brick in the passenger seat of the car.

The other couple was Kurt and Ryan. Though they're "temporarily separated," the gleam, that glossy sparkle that has the sight of you still makes me speechless written all over it, was still in their eyes as they offered pillows to each other. Dana, the last roadie, and only girl, of Rainbow Road Rules 2002 (we took a motor home), though has no man in her life at the time, has two children, one of which wets the bed nightly, to spend her thoughts on.

What separated me from them is a matter of vacancy: Each of them hold permanent residence in the minds/hearts of their loved ones and vice versa. I, on the other hand, as I stared out into the barren desert as we passed the state line, couldn't help but think about my sublet who, after bailing out unexpectedly, left me with his smell on my bed sheets, a few scribbled notes on paper addressing me as cutie, and maybe a few good memories which leads me to believe that there's nothing exceptionally good about having a good memory.

Friday, March 15, 2002


This may sound trite and Shirley Mclaine-ish, but after watching consecutive episodes of The Real World and Making the Band, I decided that if I really want things, good things, to happen in my life, I've got to shake up these restless bones of mine and make things happen. It's the type of motivational epiphany that's moreso related to the weather rather than anything else. Shakespearean winds and bulbous white clouds stage the setting where I rise forth as the tragic heroine in a long, flowing white garment who takes matters, destiny, into her own feeble and mortal hands.

So I asked my mother if she would like to go shopping with me at Melrose.

Like two strangers in an elevator who talk about the weather and the recipe to a fantastic rice pudding, I feel as if we've become estranged. In four months I will be moving out, and when I do, I don't want to be leaving a woman who just gave birth to me; I want to be leaving a friend you can't wait to see next summer, that someone who will hold your hair back as you puke, buy hemmroidal creme for you because you're just too embarrassed to do it yourself. . .that someone who would stay up past 3 a.m. helping you put a past relationship to death.

But this is life, right? Not my imagination where every house has balconies and granite statues of winged creatures. I didn't get to choose the uterus that thrust me out, naked and ass first, into this world. I didn't choose a mother to whom unconditional love had something to do with hair and not acceptance. But then again I don't want to sound like a member of a minority chastising his circumstances and the shitty lot he was born into.

For a Psychology major gearing towards genetic determinism, I think that sharing a portabella mushroom sandwich with my mother, Urban Outfitters bags littering the area by our feet, would put a grin, not a smile, on even Sartre's face.

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

You're Gonna Cry...Cry, Cry, Cry...96 Tears

I am in such the oldies mood tonight---the kind that would make me drive in 1969 blue mustang convertible, a disco ball hanging from the rearview, bumping some Aretha---hands flayling about and snapping occasionaly along with the beat...

You know, I always thought that all those Russian and Czech writers were bullshiting when the said that work was the answer to all of life's troubles, but I guess I was wrong. I've been slaving away all day and have never felt better in my life. Someone needs to throw a parade in memory, cause, god dammit, I feel as if I've done something memorable.

There are but few instances when I am this happy and content with myself; I just had to get it all down. Like those Star Shot pictures that blur all the blemishes from off your face and darken out the irregular curves of your body, this is something to reflect on during those less then sun, sun, sun shining happy days and get motivated.

Rescue me
cause I'm lonely and I'm blue
I need you and your love too...
Come on baby...and rescue me...

Monday, March 11, 2002

Quick Note:

Wry adj. (of humor, remarks etc.) neatly turned, but bitter or ironic.

I got an email from a Professor today describing me as having a wry sense of humor. I could accept this from a close friend who knows how saturated I am with bitterness, but a professor? I don't know whether I should feel insulted or should begin looking for a self-help program with the words Journey or Path somewhere in the title, where they teach you to speak fiercely from the mind...

Wry sense of humor...

Saturday, March 09, 2002

Straight, in a Relationship, or Mentally Challenged

Sounds like a list of things to avoid when searching for someone of the, in my case, same sex, but, again in my case, it seems to be a list of things I gravitate towards to the way some flowers lean towards the direction of the sun: out of necessity?

I'm just getting sick of hearing "I like you very much---I have a great time with you---but I've got someone waiting at home for me." But I like how this wave of guilt usually comes over them after I've raised myself up from my knees, the words pouring forth as I attempt to tidy up my hair and shirt.

I've watched Monica in Black and White, the HBO tell-all show about Miss Lewinsky, and I've got to say that I really love that gal. My empathy toward her, I think, says bales about me. I sat on my couch with a pillow propped inbetween my legs and a cigarette in my hand, thinking poor, poor Monica or Shoot, you don't need him girl. But my sisterhood with Monica goes beyond the fact that we're both chubby and have big brown cow eyes; it has to do with the fact that we both know what if feels like to fall for someone unattainable and who would deny any sexual relations when asked.

So I got the Yes I'd like to adopt Mandarin children with you but I'm already taken line from a guy last night while his taste was still fresh in my mouth. Funny thing is, he leaned in to kiss me again despite this. I pulled him away from his collar and told him to go home to his boyfriend.

"Why, what's wrong now?"
"It's called a conscience, and If you don't leave now I might change my mind"

All this stuff---all the men and the false hopes that come along with them like the fine print written on the back of a San Phillipe resort promotion telling you you've been had---just give me, as Monica put it in regard to the president, an Excedrin headache.

Thursday, March 07, 2002

Long, Strange Day

Had to wake up at six to cram for my Bio test I had to make up today because, as I told my professor, the same one I told last semester that I could not complete my essay on time because I was too preoccupied with getting my HIV test results back, I was "getting my tonsils removed."
Exam was cake...but, then again, I am a genius you know...

Oh. And I got a three night getaway to a five star resort in San Phillipe, Mexico (plus 10 complimentary Margaritas) for 60 bucks. No joke. Was outside of work having cig break. Man in god awful silk shirt with wheelbarrows on it asks "Hey Buddy, you been to San Phillipe?" And from then on I had plans for my Spring Break. The clincher, I must admit, was the 10 free margaritas. CHA moutherfucking CHING.

Listening to Moonlight Sonata right now, wishing I were sprawled out on a salmon pink marble floor somewhere in Venice, a French cigarette hanging out my lips, the sound of running water coming from somewhere in the distance.

Gotta wake up at 5am tomorrow so I can be carted away in a bus for over four hours to Joshua Tree National Park for bio exam. It's not bad enough that it's a desert, but because of the rain, it's either gonna be a swamp or just the right conditions for midget mud wrestling. You decide.

I wish Beethoven had written lyrics.
I hate filling in the blanks.

Wednesday, March 06, 2002

Oh, so that's why my heart races whenever I suck on myself.

Tuesday, March 05, 2002


Thanks Meesh for the shoutout. Been catching up on your current affairs, since my puter went and did away with all my links.

saying goodbye was just hard. i couldn't simply let go of something i'd become so familiar with. something that felt so much like home. it felt like the most illogical thing to do. but it had to be done because the ticket said so.

Damn girl. Bruce's class just isn't the same without your ghetto fabulous ass.

Mondays: Not Only Manic but also Uneventful

I decided to sleep in today and miss my poetry class, because, quite honestly, I'm getting sick of all the love poems to Jesus girls in ROXY sweaters bring in week after dreadful weak. I know I'm not a poetic virtuoso, no A.E Housman or even a Leonard Cohen, but some people should not be allowed to sit with paper and pen in hand for extended periods of time; the results are often catastrophic, usually including images of mirrors shattering, and can be as gruesome and scrotum-wrenching as seeing John Stewart naked in the Grammys.

Another thing to bitch about: my biology class. I officially know more that I ever wanted to know about trees and the molecular makeup of plants in general. Sure I could possibly spout out useless yet interesting Bio tid bits while on dates, "You know that part of the mushroom you just ate was its reproductive organ?", but I'm a Psychology major for christ's sake. Is it really that necessary that I know the life cycle of a fern?

Today's lab was spent treading across campus, and eventually into the wildlife sanctuary, identifying tree species. For a moment, while in the sanctuary, I separated myself from the others and wandered into a woody area by the stream. There among the vines and sapping trees, I envisioned myself far from the backwoods of Mt. SAC and into the backwoods of Vietnam somewhere. "The others have been killed," I thought to myself, "must find shelter for tonight and head out in morning fog." My professor, a middle-aged man with a ponytail who I can picture 20 years and 100lbs earlier at a Pink Floyd concert with a topless girl on his shoulders, took one look at me as I was foraging through the woody undergrowth with the intensity nearing that of Arnold Schwarzenegger in one of his many bad jungle movies, gave a look of disgust, and kept walking.
I think I need a vacation. My desire to be a tribal backpacker searching for truth in remote areas of the earth keeps surfacing in the most inappropriate of times.

There was something, however, that made me smile today: I caught my mother polishing my father's shoes. There's nothing inherently profound in catching your mother shining your father's shoes with a rag, but if you knew my mother, this is the kind of thing you'd want to capture with a photograph. She's not the type who would write a ten page treatise explaining her love, nor rent a plane and circle over your house with a I've Got You Babe banner hanging from its tail---she's the kind of woman who believes that the one's who love you are the ones who make you cry.

What is it after all that we're all expecting? What is it that I'm expecting? Besides someone who can bear with you at your worst and, if you're lucky, polish your shoes?

Are the rest just details?

Sunday, March 03, 2002

Oh Wow

I thought that nothing could beat having sex with your high school boyfriend in your car in front of your parent's house, but I guess I was wrong.

After spending the most part of the day being depressed and writing sappy love poems, I decided to strap on some jogging shorts, a bandana, my yellow sports Walkman with cheesy Duran Duran streaming out of it, and go for a run. I guess this must be runner's high because, three hours and 5 or 6 miles later, I sprawled myself on my front lawn and heard my blood pumping through me as if it were the Nile during flooding season: relentless.

I know that many people come up with various mind games while running as a motivational tool; for instance, I knew this guy who used to sing the Star Spangled Banner while doing Cross Country. I, of course, would not settle for something that pedestrian. There are three scenarios I use while running; the application of them depending on my relationship status and my general mood:

1) I imagine that there is someone chasing after me. This someone is usually a man in his fifties who would look pretty normal in his argyle sweater and Santa white hair were it not for the gleam in his eyes that seem to tell you that all you would need to do is keep still, pretend not to mind the smell too much, and your year's tuition would be taken care of. This image can usually get me going for a few blocks, but after I start to feel the burn I say to hell with it and bend over panting. My honor, as you have already found it, is not that easily insulted.

2) I imagine that I am running towards someone. This someone is usually a man in his twenties who I love. He is far, but I know that he is waiting for me. Like a child, I can sometimes seem him waving a tree branch in the air, or sometimes he will wave his hands at me, furious with anticipation, and laugh as I trip, not a haha-you-dickwad laugh but a I-love-the-way-you're-clumsy-and-careless laugh. This usually always works but has two drawbacks: (a) I lose myself in my imagination and begin to smile which results in the creases of my lips becoming extremely dry and pasty. (b) At the end of my run, I can't help but feel like a lame 40 year old who has to imagine a reunion with an old lost lover, each's arms spreading out eager for that initial touch, to keep him from collapsing on the sidewalk. But then I realize that I don't have to be 40 to do that; I do it already. And that just makes me feel like crying.

3) I imagine that I am chasing after someone. This someone is usually a man in his twenties who I once dated. I sometimes hear the theme song of CHIPS while chasing him, which gives me the extra oomph to keep going, knowing that justice is on my side. I sometimes will yell obscenities at him, like Douche BAG! or Poster boy for Anal Ease! or Hey runner up for Corky's spot on Life Goes On! He is faster than me and he knows this. He is also able to avoid me since he has picked up and moved to another city and no longer returns any of my subsequent pages, but he also knows that an accidental bump-in is bound to happen, like an uncontrollable bladder in old age, and I will not hesitate in using him as a demonstration on how to smack the living hell out of a piƱata for all the Mexican kids on my street. I can see them all cheering me on, waiting any moment for the candy to come spilling out of the bad gringo's stomach.

But anyway, I have released enough tension for the night. Enough to momentarily forget the sappy voicemail I left for a certain someone with the words I Miss You plastered all over it last night? Probably not but I don't seem to be that bothered by it. There's a new feeling in me, and it's not the kind that would send me whimpering and defenseless in my bed, The Bodyguard Soundtrack on repeat. No, this feeling has more to do with the color red---the kind of thing lawsuits are made of.