Tuesday, December 31, 2002

Brave New Year?

I should be hating life at the moment considering that everyone I know is doing something fabulous tonight except me. Whereas John is in New York, the lesbians in Seatle, and Danee back in San Francisco where she presumably is NOT having sex on my bed, I will be spending the remaining hours of the year with my family at a Greek Convention type gala: a rented, large dining hall, airplane-influenced food, and bad music--kind of like prom but with more eyebrow hair.

However, seeing that I've given up casual sex, swallowing quarts of rum, and having relationships with porn stars, tonight might just prove to be more my cup of tea. Though changing my lifestyle was not altogether a conscious act, I, acknowledging that my past was not something I would want to embroider on a pillow, welcomed the change anyway. Occasionally I will find myself thumbing a napkin in the kitchen and thinking of those days, the Motels on Sunset, the smell of one night stands on my breath, the way a man in a wheelchair might recall his days of doing the Hokie Pokie, or even a Waltz. But these moments are as fleeting as the weight loss from a juice diet: A roommate will barge into the kitchen, and I will recollect myself, blaming my momentary haze on the weather and a paper on Evolutionary Psychology. Nostalgia is something better left undisclosed.

Normally, I would have compiled a list of absurd resolutions for the new year like (1) date someone named Edward, or (2) stop buying Calvin Kline undies, but this year I've only got one resolution I actually care to stick to. It includes not so much letting go of the past but acknowledging that it, like an underdeveloped jaw line or a lisp, is here to stay, and that coming to terms with it is the only possibly way of staying sane.

Whether I'm ready for such a change, ready to admit that I'm not that twenty year old staggering outside my bedroom window with eyes blinking full of rum and love, is besides the point, because change, it seems, like heartbreak, relationships, or even the passing of time, is something unavoidable, as inevitable as midnight, and something that almost always never asks for your permission.

Happy New Year.

Saturday, December 28, 2002

Road Trip Meets Ani Difranco

I'm going to Mexico tomorrow with the Lesbians. It'll be a fun-filled day of buying colorful sombreros, sampling tequila, and eating fish tacos, they said.

Last time I was in Mexico I smoked weed despite the fact that I never smoke weed, and I found myself in the morning sprawled on the beach spooning a transsexual named Aurora Gayheart.

Either way, something tells me we won't be making our way south of the border like three sorority sisters in a convertible mustang singing along to Britany Spears, each of us in tank tops as we wonder why the Mexican government has done nothing to rid its streets of the many dirty children begging for tortillas.

"Oh my god Tiffany. That one's like missing a leg."

Tiffany, gasping: "That is SO Kathy Ireland and Feed the Children Special."

Amber chiming in with: "Yeah and like 'Oops, the power plant spilt radiation in your water supply'".

And with that we'd all share a moment of silence, run a single finger through our wind-tossed hair, and, knowing that human suffering was beyond our range of expertise, agree that buying Sting albums was enough charity for a lifetime, our tires all the while leaving a trail of dust behind us like a long, impenetrable blanket.

Wednesday, December 25, 2002

The Youth in Asia

I'm contemplating sending this to the Dutch Voluntary Euthanasia Society.

Ten Reasons Why I Should Be Put To Death Like a Thoroughbred Who's Lost His Livelihood:

(1) I'm back in Los Angeles.

(2) I'm selling lavender scented candles at the mall to elderly women sporting Americana pins the size of Delaware on their crocheted sweaters.

(3) The San Francisco Humane Society denied me the rights to a three month old tabby, claiming that my living environment would prove too stressful for such a creature.

(4) I gained two pounds.

(5) Stephan has most probably enlisted in the Witness Protection program, changed his name to Patrick, and fled to Wisconsin on account of the 2am voicemail I left last Friday, the contents of which I don't entirely remember because of the six some rum and cokes in my system, but I'd venture to guess that it had nothing to do with an inquiry about his stance on affirmative action.

(6) My mother is convinced I have converted to Judaism because (a) I informed her that Jesus was not born on Dec 25, (b) refused to accompany her to church this evening, and (c) told her that the life size portrait of St. Nectarios she took the liberty of having in my room in my absence is as depressing as the sight of a starving Albanian child.

(7) In the company of friends, my mother refers to me as "the Jew". "See if the Jew will have dinner tonight," she will say to my father, glancing at the bowl of cauliflower to her right.

(8) I realized that downloading my ex-boyfriend's porn is as creepy as smelling the shirt he left behind, the cloth enveloping my face like a gas mask.

(9) I realized that smelling my ex-boyfriend's shirt he left behind, the cloth enveloping my face like a gas mask, is as creepy as having a friend of a friend call him, my ear pressed closely against hers as we both fought for control over the ear piece.

(10) Tomorrow is Christmas, and The Family is coming over.

I might as well dress in rainbow colors and wear a yamakah because the type of exclusion I will be faced with tomorrow can only be likened to that of religious persecution and ethnic cleansing. The Nikolopolouses are the kind of people that will make you cry and then have you wipe your tears with bark hide.

As long as they keep their lamb-eating hands off me, avoid eye contact, and restrict conversation to comments made about mother's roasted potatoes, I have a feeling things will go smoothly...

Thursday, December 19, 2002

In Search of my Other X

Before moving into my current apartment, I thought long and hard about the ramifications of living with three women.

I didn't think much about it when I took to sitting down each time I had to pee. I thought I'd just follow common practice in the household, and besides, sitting while peeing has its perks, namely not having to wash your hands when done.

However, today's events have made me question my progesterone-saturated environment. Studying for finals today had given me a headache the size of Ohio, so naturally I rummaged around our medicine cabinet and could only find (1) small-sized tampons, (2) medium-sized tampons, (3) "oops there's a tsunami in my panties"-sized tampons, and (4) Maximum Strength Midol.

I hesitated.

Provides maximum strength relief of: bloating, water-weight gain, cramps, headache and backaches.

I swallowed the pills anyway, pretending not to notice their salmon-pink coloring, and now, two some hours later, I fear this may have only been a gateway for much worse things to come.

First it was the sitting down to pee, a coy expression on my face as I flipped through a month old Reader's Digest, which eventually gave rise to my taking of premenstrual medication.

Another year of this and I might as well be hoarding wads of cotton up my asshole just for thrills.

Tuesday, December 17, 2002

The Update:

From the beginning, I knew something strange was in the air when we walked into The Eagle Tavern, a biker bar, and noticed men in leather chaps embracing in dark, anonymous corners. At any moment I expected them to assemble and sing anything from The Blue Oyster Cult in unison, their baritone voices filling the room along with the smell of Johnny Walker and Old Spice.

Once at the Sex Club, Danee and I agreed that it resembled much too much of Dante’s lower rings of hell. Save for the forty-year-old accountant who, spread eagle and standing, was getting his ass pounded by an Anna Nicole Smith look-alike, there was not as much sex as I had anticipated.

The club was divided into two sections: the lower two levels were designated for heteros and transsexuals, whereas the upper two were exclusively Men Only. So of course, Stephan and I, being the only two who were allowed entrance to the upper levels among our group of five, made our way up the long, chain-adorned stairs. But rather than loosing ourselves among the glory hole maze, weaving in and out of the barracks, or even peaking our heads through one of the many tents for a little game of duck-and-suck, I sat...and watched Stephan wrestle. At a sex club, Stephan wrestled.

This was no mud wrestling; no one was greased up like a pig. It was a bonafide, league-sized, wrestling ring situated inside a large auditorium. This is Eyes Wide Shut gone terribly wrong, I thought to myself as I urged him to enter the ring. I had known about his interest in wrestling because (a) he told me, and (b) he had spent most of the time at the Eagle Tavern bug-eyed and fixated on the Extreme Wrestling that was being televised by overhead monitors. "So violent" I remember breathing into his ear, and he, as if plucked from a momentary haze, turned toward me with a "Y'said something?"

I guess things could have been worse. I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy watching him, in those tiny red shorts, maneuver in and out of headlocks, slither over and under his opponent’s bodies until they, weary and defeated, lay surrendered under Stephan's hovering body. And I, like a father taking credit for his son's curveball, sat cross-legged and answered all inquiries about this newly-introduced Herculean man with a "Yeah; the boy's with me."

However, we soon lost track of time and, were it not for the man at the entrance of the auditorium yelling "Angelo and Stephan--downstairs!", would have forgotten about the girls we had left in the company of prostitutes and drag queens. If anyone had any doubts, you can, indeed, be paged at a sex club.

I could go into detail of how I felt like a fat girl who no one wanted to see cry when a half-naked Neanderthal snuck behind Stephan and continued to dance with him, convinced that he were Patrick Swayze circa Dirty Dancing years, but surprisingly I'm not in a self-loathing mood tonight. Sure I grabbed Nuria, Stephan's Spanish friend, by the arm, dragged her outside for a cigarette and said things like "can you believe that guy?", but in hindsight, I've decided that getting involved with gogo boy would prove to be the very end of me. Currently, I'm developing a Why Stephan Reminds Me of Garrett list, the first article, just to preview, being "both share love of extreme wrestling."

Even though the ceilings in my apartment leak, the heaters have yet to be fixed, and Stephan would rather prefer me as his rock climbing buddy, quite honestly, being single, somewhat chubby, and STD free has never felt so damn good.

Saturday, December 14, 2002

Guess who Stephan's taking to a sex club tonight???

Raises hand. Me! Me! Me!

Adam is SO out of the picture.

Meet Adam

Since things with Stephan aren’t going as I hoped they would (i.e., him calling with adoration on his breath), I decided to pick up another boyfriend en route to the movie theater with Danee.

He was resting face up on a newsstand when I came across him. The rain had caused him to curl along the edges; his face was soaked and glistened like the skin of a dolphin. I couldn’t help myself. I put him in my pocket and went my way.

Throughout the movie (Personal Velocity, which, by the way, did not live up to its intriguing title), my hands uncontrollably migrated toward the new object in my pocket. Was he enjoying himself? Was he fond of slice-of-life films with female protagonists asserting their strength? I thought and fingered his brow to ensure that he was still there, that he had not fallen out and joined the debris of York Peppermint Patty wrappings around my feet.

We eventually made it home, and he’s resting on our refrigerator door at the moment, nestled right in-between Danee’s collection of half-naked girl magnets. I’ve named him Adam because (a) he looks like an Adam, and (b) I’ve always wanted a boyfriend with a biblical name.

Ask me now why I would have taken a photograph of a strange man left behind on a newsstand and I could probably not find a convincing explanation. Danee suggested that I make photocopies of it with the words Have You Seen My Boyfriend?, along with my telephone number, printed below it. The thought does sound charming were it not for my strong intuition that tells me that he’s either a hockey player or a construction worker who would have no moral qualms over dragging me, legs first, through gravel from the tail end of his Chevy pickup.

I caught him looking at me as I helped myself to a second plate of pasta. Those green eyes, one slightly red from underexposure, fixed on me, as if to say: “You’re not thinking of having complex carbohydrates this late are you?” And I, knowing that he had a point, stowed the Putanesca back where it belonged.

Maybe it is a bit strange to have a relationship with a man I just picked up on the street, but it wouldn’t, I have to admit, be the first. After all, this one is different. It’s only been three hours and I’m able to stand, bowlegged and in my boxers, in front of him without shame as I search for string-cheese remnants in my fresh produce drawer.

Like the time I grew my hair out because of my premonition that 70’s coiffures were making a comeback and had wanted to greet the trend early, I have a feeling about this Adam. And if any spiteful roommates, resentful of our blossoming love, dare remove his picture from the fridge, they’ll curse the day their mothers didn’t opt for an abortion.

Friday, December 13, 2002

karma is a bitch.

angelo owes me three drinks. he said he'd pay for two rounds and then his card wouldn't go through, so i, of course, had to pay for everything! then the dumbass left his account logged on, so i can write in his blog. this is danee, by the way.

Thursday, December 12, 2002

Slim Pickings

After wrapping up my Anthro final this morning which dealt with hegemony and globalization, I went down to the Berkeley Humane Society to be in the company of four-legged creatures.

There, with Sweetie Pie, a five year old female Tabby, curled in my arms, I couldn't help but wonder whether I had pilgrimaged to some oracle and had witnessed my future: litter boxes, cat nip, and the ever present meow bellowing from among the cages. I had gone in search of a Russian Blue which I have planned to name Daisy. Instead, seeing that it's Christmas season and devoted boyfriends are busy buying lovable kittens and puppies for their undeserving girlfriends, kittens, it seems, are hard to come by these days. I contemplated whether I should adopt the ten year old Siamese female, who was too busy coughing up a chunk of dry cat food to answer my calls, poking my finger all the while through her caged den.

So what if she reeked of rheumatism and aging bones? So what if she were a little sloppy, neglected to groom herself, and did nothing but nap lazy afternoons away, dreaming of times when she were in her prime, youthful--still capable of making the neighborhood cats swoon at the arch of her back?

I left and stood at the bus stop, wondering what had happened to those days when I was still in my prime, when I was youthful--sill capable of making the men in Vaseline alley swoon at the arch of my back.

Have I turned into an aging Siamese cat with matted hair no one wants to adopt? Has my livelihood disappeared like Michael Jackson’s parental rights? After six months of not having sex, how do you tell whether you're being too choosy or simply not being chosen?

In times like these, there are only two things than can cheer me up: sex and alcohol.

Unless Danee is willing to take one for the team, I see the possibility of sex being slim to none.

Like a tourniquet made of popsicle sticks or, even, bed sheets for curtains, rum and cokes, I guess, will just have to do.

Monday, December 09, 2002

More pictures of Halloween night have surfaced, each being valid evidence for why I should leave alcohol and military regalia well enough alone.

You can view these here.

Call Me Josie Grossey

The premiere at The Parkway Theater and reception/spoken word performances at The Black Box went well tonight.

I had invited Stephan (i.e., Gogo boy) to come, but I had not expected that he, seconds before I rose to the stage to read my "I hate being single" poem, would plop down beside me, pointing out the obvious with a "I'm here."

Everything would have been honky dory if I had not confessed to eating meals meant for two, singing Sonny and Cher's "I've Got You Babe" alone in my car, winking in the mirror; if i had not admitted to despising the usage of those three words, just one tonight, each time I spent a Friday night alone at the movie theater or a French Restaurant; everything would have been fine if I hadn't moved my eyes in his direction and ended my poem with:

in a world full of twos,
sometimes threes,
being just one
has never been
such a harder thing
to explain.

Can we say painfully obvious, would-you-PLEASE-date-me, innuendo?

I walked him out, and we spent a few awkward moments of him telling me how he had spent the day in Santa Cruz doing Fujitzu. (It's actually Jujitsu, a Japanese form of martial arts, but when he first informed me of this hobby, I calmly removed the martini from my mouth and uttered: "Sure, Fujitsu ; I love that stuff", unaware that that was the name of a Japanese corporation specializing in laptops and computer software).

And when I gave him a hug, I couldn't help but wonder if he thought I was some creepy guy filling my nose with the smell of his neck so that I could refer to it once in bed, clutching to my pillow like a 14 year old girl praying to dear god that it would somehow transform itself into Lance Bass.

At this point, it would be SO understandable if he never wanted to see that sights of me again.

Sometimes, I'm so lame I wouldn't even want to date myself.

Saturday, December 07, 2002

In a few minutes I will be heading out to the city and to a vintage expo appropriately dubbed "Deco the Halls". This, as I try to convince myself, is an attempt to prove to my roommates that I very well capable of detaching myself from the telephone, staring at it as if it were a comatose patient about to resurface at any moment.

I could do it, really. But like removing wisdom teeth or hugging my senile grandmother, do I really have to?

What if Juliet had said to hell with Romeo and had gone, instead, to the mall with her girlfriends, wasting away time with strapless braziers while he climbed her canopy like a Bonobo, all the while whistling to no avail?

What if Yoko Ono, growing tired of waiting by the "Lucky Fungshuei Bamboo" stand John had asked her to stand by as he made a name for himself before returning for her in Tokyo, had moved to Australia, became a lesbian--cut her hair and joined the military?

But, then again, why should I wait, moping around the house like an invalid, for his call? Doesn't he know that I'm a model??

He does have my cell phone number, so I suppose I could spend my afternoon eyeing vintage ashtrays and Elvis inspired shot glasses. I could, I suppose, eat dinner somewhere besides my kitchen, take a stroll around the park, or, and this is pushing it, stop taking the phone along with me each time I use the bathroom…

But do I really, really have to?

Friday, December 06, 2002

GoGo boy called tonight, and we went dancing in the city. He told me he was bringing a friend, Christina, but I had no idea that this "friend" would prove to be so hostile towards me.

Like a nuclear plant on overdrive, she was sending out negatives vibes specifically aimed towards me (and not Marl). I had to remind myself that it would look very uncouth of me if I were to trip her on the dance floor during Blur's Song 2, the words "he likes me" coming out of my mouth.

The scenario was typical. Extremely hot bi-curious, leaning more towards full-fledged homosexual, guy is friends with self-esteem lacking girl. Girl with shoes looking as if they had wrestled with a bucket of glitter, falls for bi-curious, leaning more towards full-fledged homosexual, guy, but he has his eyes set on newly introduced boy who's sitting at bar (i.e., me), coyly drinking a Heineken, feigning ignorance to all the turmoil his presence has caused.

In the end, it was me he asked to move in with him. Hear that bitch? Me! I had the urge to say but caught myself short after I had realized that he had just asked me to move in with him in a very matter-of-fact, pass-the-salt kind of manner.

As it happens, I think he's merely desperate for a roommate, but nonetheless I think he's finally coming to terms with his love for me. Asking me to move in, I believe, was his subtle yet bold declaration of love. I wanted to swoon. The bitch could go to hell.

More later; there's dreams of me in a yellow kitchen wearing a plaid apron and saying something along the lines of "the roast’s ready hon!" to have.

Wednesday, December 04, 2002

I'm so tired, tired, tired...

After spending six hours in Oakland perfecting my Digital Poem for the premiere on Sunday, I ate a meal for two which the man who sold me my Thai food tonight was kind enough to indicate by placing two forks in my container.

Tomorrow I will have to flirt with my bank teller in an attempt to rid myself of fees I'm constantly racking up for overdrawing on my account. Many have questioned my ability to break through red tape and draw out the child in the most stern of big business representatives, but when it comes to such things, I'm Erin Brockovich with better hair.

Once I managed to have my cell phone bill waved by arguing that I had fallen victim to date rape, and that my perpetrator, taking advantage of my comatose state, had called all 34 of his relatives living in the Northern Hemisphere, thus relinquishing me of any financial responsibilities as were stated in my service agreement.

But I must sleep now. Tomorrow will prove itself to be an arduous day.

Sunday, December 01, 2002

Home is Where the Lube's At

My week home has not been altogether uneventful; instead, it’s been particularly draining.

To begin with, since my parents have converted our home to post A-bomb Nagasaki due to renovations, I've had to spend my nights sleeping in the living room. This is disconcerting for two reasons: (1) I've discovered that my father will steal into the kitchen at odd hours of the night, all the while in my mother’s Fauna influenced robe, and eat feta cheese, each mouthful being washed down by an eager gulp of orange juice. (2) In the mornings I will hear my brother and his underage Hispanic girlfriend stumble through the front door—him always saying something to the effect of “shut up bitch”, and her, in protest, whining, “God, jou don’t got to get all aggressive n shit.”

My first night back, instead of proceeding with my Let’s-Get-Mono-For-The-Fifth-Time plan, I burst through my front door at 1am and, beaten and weary by then, let out a pathetic “Surprise”. My mother, rather than dropping her cigarette and doing a cartwheel, calmly pointed the burnt tip towards me, saying, “I knew you were up to something.”

Besides that, I was supposed to go to an open call at some talent agency in L.A. this morning but, because of a handful of Sour Apple Martinis at the Abbey last night, never quite made it.

Explanation (rewind to a month back):

Imagine me walking through Union Square in San Francisco, my arms weighted down by shopping bags. Black woman in geek-chic horn rimmed glasses turns to me: “Have you ever considered being a model?” Momentarily surprised by the stupidity of the question: “I never knew there was a market for chubby models.”

After trying to convince me of my non-chubbiness, she handed me a card with an appointment on the back for open calls. Fearing that I would somehow end up in a waiting room full of men who look as if they could single-handedly bring down an evergreen and sculpt it into a canoe, I never showed up.

Fast forward to yesterday, me in Bloomindales in Studio City carefully eyeing the contents of some hair product: “Excuse me sir, but have you ever considered being a model?” (Enter chubby line here).

As it turns out, both scouts were from the same agency. Thus, surrendering once again to forces that work without my knowledge, I agreed to come to another open call, this time in Wilshire.

But maybe it’s a good thing I was too hungover this morning to go to my fabulous open call audition. I say this because of two reasons. For one, fame may have proved to be too much for me to handle. Granted that I have been known to unapologetically bask in the attention of many of men, my anonymity is a very, very sacred thing to me, and I would not have wanted images of myself on billboards to spoil this for me. Alternatively, after introducing myself to strangers and friends as International Male Model, commercials for Head and Shoulders or, worse, Lee Press-On Nails might have been the only work I would have to brag about.

Either way, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t dreaming up a loftier life as I drove down the 101 with a cigarette in one hand and an empty martini glass that Melina had pocketed as a souvenir. Summers in Northern Italy, lofts in France—all the sex I could never afford? I mused as I drove my anonymous gay ass home and into my bed in the living room.

My father was thumbing the feta cheese at 2am when I, sprawled on my bed, made the finishing touches on my perfect life:

I’d never fall in love. There would be no time. I’d spend my days breaking the hearts of young Norwegian men who had difficulties in interpreting the “open” part of our relationship. My income would be solely based on my appearances in bookstores or Yoga influenced coffee shops where devoted fans, for the price of $100 dollars, would have the opportunity to stroke my hair—an additional fee of $50 for those wanting to feed me grapes. I had it all planned out. It was perfect. I can’t wait for it to begin. I thought to myself, fanning my cheeks as if they were coals on a Christmas fire.

My father rinsed the orange juice out of his glass for a few seconds and placed it in the sink. He stood in my mother’s robe debating, from what I could gather, whether to open the pantry or not.

But he didn’t. Instead he turned, sighed, and shut the kitchen light, leaving me, along with the fireplace, the sofas, the painting of an ugly farm boy mother bought in Cyprus, alone in the dark with nothing but the company of my dreams.