Monday, September 30, 2002

Shoot me

Would someone do me a favor and slap me across the face with a five pound salmon the next time I sound like a 15 year old girl scribbling away in her Hello Kitty diary?

I have been sadder than usual I admit. But this has more to do with the climate I'm sure. Just got a bit of the "it's getting colder and soon I'll be freezing my balls off" blues. That and also the sun finally decided to join the party once again today, for a few hours at least.

But onto greener pastures. I've officially decreed this weekend as the Let's Fucking Finally Celebrate Angelo's Birthday Properly weekend. Or better yet, it can be the Let's Finally Celebrate Angelo's Birthday by Fucking Properly weekend. Do I have any buyers?

This includes (a) several bottles of rum, (b) a vehicle, preferably a 1967 convertible mustang, but I'm open to negotiations, to transport a few elect individuals and myself across the Bay Bridge, and (c) someone to pay my entrance into one of the many clubs I intend on visiting on Saturday. This, I believe, will cure me of my ills, gently highlight my hair a shade lighter, and even, if things turn out as planned, give me the inspiration to do anything besides mope around the living room like Anne Bancroft in a red wig with nothing but a tail of smoke and the sound of desperation lingering behind me.

On a side note, Lee the homeless man has returned. I was overjoyed to see his soiled pants on our back stairwell as they dried themselves in the afternoon sun. We exchanged words, and he agreed to never leave without informing me prior of his departure. I, in return, promised him our leftovers from tonight's dinner. He had no objections, and I was pleased to have him, however drunk, sleeping beneath our building once again.

Today I noted that the squirrels on campus have become increasingly frantic, scurrying about the grounds unearthing various things and placing them in their mouths for easy storage.

I've been told by me textbook on Animal Behavior that squirrels will do this as colder weather approaches, each of them making their plans, finding bedding material and nuts to last them through the winter.

So, as I crossed campus and into the library, I couldn't help but think of myself as a form of squirrel: furiously looking for a pair of nuts of my own that would last me through the cold, harsh winter

Saturday, September 28, 2002

for some reason, the latter part of the last post is italicized. don't ask me why it does this. i've decided to no longer ask why in such matters; i've surrendered to the higher powers.

Pale September

It has been a slow day today. I woke up to notice that gray skies had taken the place of cotton-candy clouds making their way across an ocean-blue plate. I didn't want to move my body today, just wanted to let it droop there for a while on the mattress, not having anything in particular in mind for it to do.

But, instead, my conscience got the best of me: wore a green turtle neck, strapped on my back, and headed down Hearst Ave. towards campus. The leaves have begun to change colors here, and they float in that cinematic way that trees have when they float from their branches down toward the soiled sidewalk. It's something that calls for a narrowing in of the protagonist, some form of instrumental piece coming from afar (a subway maybe), and a voice-over, a man's voice, saying something to the effect of: It's September, and I think of you less these days. Thus, the camera will widen itself, allowing for the view of passing cars and bicyclists, and our protagonist in his green turtleneck will walk along the sidewalk with an air of finality in his step.

Mother's spending the weekend with me; we had dinner at a very Roccoco French restaurant I wouldn't have dreamed of going unless (a) I was on a date with a corporate lawyer, and he was buying, or (b) was with family members, and they were buying. Either way, we ate fish, drank wine, and talked about my absence. It was, for the sake of simplicity, good.

For the first time in years, since I lived in Greece, I can feel the seasons changing in my bones; it's this kind of internal knowledge that you get that tells you to unravel the sweaters from the darkest corner of the closet, fasten all the windows shut, and start looking for someone to share your bed with.

It's easy to brush away intimacy when your busy fanning your body in the dry heat of the night; it's another thing to know that Fall's coming, that you're alone, and that the only thing that could save you is a warmth of a different kind.

Friday, September 27, 2002

Straight People

I was going to express my disgust for straight people tonight, my, in essence, heterophobia, but I rather want to express my distaste for ugly gay couples.

You'd think that the sight of two lanky gay men, each sporting man purses, holding hands on campus while en route to their, no doubt, interior design class would cause even my concrete cheeks to at least crack a smile...but they didn't.
Instead I thought, how the hell did they do it?!?

But really, how the hell did they do it? How could they have possibly, in this vast and, more often than not, unfriendly city, found each other, decided that their equivalent lowering of standards somehow cancelled each other out, and decided to make a go at the love game together?

And there they both were, walking past me, the phrase "fabulu" still lingering off one of their lips--two walking testimonies indicating that not even bad acne and a subtle limp is good reason to abandon all thoughts of love like a Romanian child somewhere in an all boys dormitory lowering his head on his less than orthopedic pillow.

But despite that, I spent the afternoon today, post ugly gay couple, in West Oakland soliciting people for "my" poetry workshop. I suppose it was successful; got a homeless man interested. That's a plus.
Description of homeless man in my field notes:

“Hello sir, would you be interested in taking a free [we were instructed by Korina to emphasize the free in our message] poetry class?” He, a middle-aged Black man in a Matchbox Twenty t-shirt and wrinkled brown slacks, looked at us and, a bit puzzled, asked, “ what?” So we told him about the program, that it was an opportunity to share one’s history/life with the community, that experience with computers or poetry was not needed, that all one needed was creativity and an open mind, and that it was, to reiterate, free. “Look at here,” he said and leaned toward us as if to expound a grave secret to us, “I’ve got no home, no job, wife just left me…we be in separation right, poetry? Fo what?” Momentarily taken aback, Deanna and I struggled for an answer. “We train you to use computer software programs such as Adobe Photoshop, Premiere, and Reason—the kind of stuff you can put on a resume maybe.” His eyes perked up: “Now you’re talking my language.”

All in all, the program's meant to give the underprivileged living in Oakland a voice. In theory, this concept sounds "nice"; it's getting these brats into the damn place that's the tough part.

So far we've work shopped one poem by a poet named Kasha.
It was called "Tupac's not Dead".

I wonder what Kasha would think of Rilke?

Wednesday, September 25, 2002

For my Birthday

First, I found out my god child, the girl I baptized in the name of god, died in a car accident, which my mother did not want to tell me, though I found out from another greek girl, christina.

Second, I spent no money of my own buying some ten or so drinks. I've catalogued them for reasons I-don't-know:

2 rum and cokes
2 sex on the beaches
1 heineken
1 kamikaze shot
2 smirnoffs
2 beers from a keg at a frat house given to me by a VERY cute frat boy who escorted me into his room but was interrupted by his other frat bros, and, having felt too much testosterone in the air, I made my exit from his room tho I knew something, SOMETHING, would have happened,

Third, Malik from Real World New York wished me a happy birthday as I stumbled out of Kips, the local bar.

And two seconds ago, I was smoking a Camel light (and probably my last) out on my makeshift balcony thinking that I was, finally, twenty-one, in my own apartment, and, most importantly, disregarding the booze, happy...

and that's all I have to say about that...

Monday, September 23, 2002


So this is the last time I'm changing my template. I thought I would be crafty and manipulate html codes, but as it became aware to me I lack the know-how to do such stuff. For the most part, my experimental templates looked like something Monet would paint if he had chronic diarreah and was limbless.

By the way, note to any computer savvy peeps out there: what the hell are those demonic looking A's doing on my link list??? I've tried deleting, but that just made my title go away. I wish there were a Blogger tech support number I could call. I have a habit of falling madly in love with the guys over at Pacific Bell who command me for hours:

Turn off the computer.
Go to device manager (device huh?)
Are you sure you turned it on?

I spend such hours with these men, whose names range from Bruce to Chadwick, that I can't help but picture them as my overly pragmatic boyfriends living overseas in Spain instructing me on how to install their DSL which they waited months for it to arrive, only to have me open its box and poke at its peculiar looking and intimidating contents.

I need to do laundry.

I've Done it Again

I’ve lost myself in fantasy again. The faucet's talking to me again in muffled whispers every morning, and the teapot has ones.

You know you got it bad when you spend all afternoon waiting for the PG&E man to come, all the while dreaming up sizzling hot scenarios.

Scenario 1:
Him, a sturdy man, in his late thirties, pepper and salt hair--mostly pepper--finds me, coiled on the couch, lemonade in one hand, anthropology text book in the other, defeated by the heat. "Would you like something to drink, water, beer, a blow job, something for the road then?" I say and at that we’re both on the kitchen floor fumbling to remove his tool belt.

Scenario 2:
Him, slightly younger this time, inexperienced, probably taking over his dad's shift, who incidentally runs the Berkeley PG&E charter and thought it good for his blonde-haired son with too much of an interest in art to "put a little bit of elbow grease" into it this summer, finds me, yet again, coiled on the couch, this time, with a joint in one hand, a metal contraption of some sort in the her, whispering: You're right on time.

What actually happened:
His name was Dan, late thirties, probably ideal contestant for a Charles Manson look alike contest. . .had no ass. He found me, at least, on the couch, sleeping, and thinking who the fuck checks gas pipes at 8:30 pm? I lead him to the living room heater; he informed me of the leak, and I of course over-dramatically yelped "LEAK?!?!", to which he bent down, screwed something or the other, and assured me that everything was better now.

I offered water, but he didn't want any.

I had a cigarette anyway on the porch after he left, slowly bringing it to my lips in a languid, opiate-induced manner, smiling at the thought that the bathroom sink had been dripping for days now...and that I would call and have it checked first thing tomorrow.

Wednesday, September 18, 2002

Sweet Twenty-One

I had wanted to take Kirin to a plateau-esque area by the Golden Gate Bridge, lemonade and warm baguettes in our hands, but because of lack of funds and lack of an automobile, I bought her a handcrafted purse we had spotted together and headed out to Jupiter: an outdoor restaurant that is somewhat akin to a isolated, small corner of a French Village. We ate pizza, spoke about the lack of love in our parent's lives, and hoped to dear god that that, through some bizarre genetic transmission, wouldn't happen to us.

I'm at the apartment now, convinced that the mosquito bites on my arm are brimming full with the West Nile virus. But I keep my windows open as wide as the legs of a porn star named Pam 'cause, for an ex-suburbanite like me, there's something irrevocably sexy about hearing the sounds of passing cars coming from the street below.

On another note, I hereby announce my official boycott of Danee's blog, and I urge my devoted readers to follow suit.

She has a habit of passing gas in the middle of the night and also keeps a purple dildo stored in her sock drawer.

But you didn't hear that from me...


Life it seems has decided to roll up its sleeves and land an uppercut on my jaw.

School has exponentially picked up space leaving me at Cafe Milano with a what-the-fuck look on my face as I count the pages I still need to read. Besides this, the homeless man who was living beneath my building was finally officially evicted so to speak. Lee Robertson, who shares the same age, 52, as my mother, had lived in the storage room beneath the building along side rodents and roaches for years now until, that is, he met the wrath of us (sadly, we called the cops on him after his noise became slightly excessive).

I would disclose further but my anthropology reader is staring at me; spread eagle, it wants me to delve in...

I miss Lee, the man that was beneath my building.

Friday, September 13, 2002


Tuesday, September 10, 2002


While calculating the coefficient of relatedness among genealogies of honeybees, it occurred to me that I will most probably not have children of my own, and the thought particularly depressed me.

It's not the station wagons, the baby wipes, baseball games, or the Because I said so declarations that I'm mourning over but the opportunity to pass something on---a fragment of myself, the unique way I tie my shoelaces, my raucous laughter---into the next generation. Maybe it’s the large amounts of time I've been spending on my own, alone, and people watching. I've seen two gay couples scurrying down the street with their (1) obviously adopted Mandarin child and (2) the other definitely a product of a turkey baster and a willing lesbian. I couldn't help but feel envious as two men held hands, googo gaga-ed at a two month old strapped in a chest baby holder reminiscent of a Native American deer skin ensemble, and walked away toward their perfectly fulfilled, realized, and damn snug future together.

It's funny really. A year ago I had wanted to kick an infant to see the velocity it would produce flying through the air. Now I want one to come flying out of my ass.

Los Angeles Times Headline: Baby Emerges From Gay Man's Ass.

Sunday, September 08, 2002

Tonight has been the hottest since I've been here, and I'm waiting for my laundry to finish up in the basement.
This kind of weather makes me want to walk barefoot, makes me want to walk barefoot on old wood floors and smoke cigarettes.
I've been smoking cigarettes and walking barefoot on the tired wood planks of my outdoor stairs in the back all night now.
Usually, the apartment emanates a musky, moldy, sun-hasn't-seen-this-place-for-decades aroma, but at night, when we, the tenants, wash our clothes--our tank tops and, coyly, our underwear--the hallways smell like clean cotton--like clean cotton and, maybe, a few lilacs.

I've spent all day doing Mendelian crosses determining the genotypes for mythical unicorns in Berkeley for my Animal Behavior class, and I've learned absolutely nothing about life or anything of any value. Only until tonight, the hottest night it's been since I've been here, have I, barefoot, smoking, and waiting for my laundry to finish up, learned something.

It's simple really, finding happiness in the mundane.

Saturday, September 07, 2002

Hold Me Closer Tiny Faggot

In a place where Delta Epsilon sorority girls can piss in the streets disregarding passerby guys demanding Make it drip!!, where can I, a gay man from Los Angeles with an appreciation for antiques and elaborate coaster settings, find my nook?

In an attempt to find that place, I, having had too much of the mating rituals of aquatic worms in Samoa, headed out of Animal Behavior 11B and into Pier 1, my heart set out for an over-indulgent martini set made exclusively for my over-indulgent drinking habits. Instead, I made out with iron candle holders, a potential lover, and a 30% discount provided by said potential lover who's a Pier 1 employee who has an appreciation for young boys with an appreciation for iron candle holders. With that said, I waltzed myself back to the apartment with U2's Beautiful World playing in my head with the ferocity of murderous mosquitoes from the West Nile making their way South: i.e., unrelenting and unstoppable.

But the mercy from above didn't stop there: Two hours later two free tickets to see Coldplay tonight at the Berkeley Greek Theater landed on my lap. And two slices of Blondie's pizza later, Kirin and I ended up singing, "we live in a beautiful world", even though neither of us, at the time, believed it.

Tonight, Danee, the roommate, is gone, and I have the room to myself. And you'd think that under such circumstances I'd have the Slow Jams going and a bottle of lube propped on the nightstand, but instead I can't help myself from looking out of the window and into the orange glow of what we here call the night sky.

In a place where sorority girls can piss in abandon, where martini sets lead to potential one night stands, and where a gay man from Los Angeles can stare out his window in the middle of the night with a glass of wine in one hand and a iron candle holder in the other, how can anyone not appreciate being alive underneath a night sky, as foggy or as orange as it may be?

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

You Can't Always Get What you Want

but if you try sometimes
you just might find
you get what you need

aaaaaaaa yyeaaaah

you get what you need.

I should get ready for class now.



Tuesday, September 03, 2002

A New Day?

Guess who has floor tickets at the Pacific Bell Park in San Francisco (an outdoor stadium) to see the Rolling Stones?!?

*looks around room*

I guess things are looking up after all, even though I'm momentarily $175 in the hole.

Finally! Good old Mick will near in on his microphone, wail "'re so beautiful", and I'll swoon back toward my seat, half-embarrassed, half-bashful, and admit, "well yeah, yeah, I am..."---the roar of the audience around me like a million forest fires in the night.

*does cartwheel*