Why was this the winter of my discontent and not the winter of my discotheque?
I am so owed this spring.
March 31, 2004
March 30, 2004
Dude.
The Homeland Insecurity board game is so cool that I cannot think of a proper superlative.
Unfortunately, I lost.
Unfortunately, I lost.
March 28, 2004
My Spring Break...
| Books I Read | Asses I Tapped | Heart of Darkness |
| The Kite Runner | |
| The DaVinci Code | |
| While England Sleeps | |
| If You Were With Me, Everything Would Be All Right | |
| The Goat (or, Who is Silvia) | |
| My Antonia | |
| To The Lighthouse | |
| Woody Allen Reader |
I need a proper insult to describe my spring break. If you have any ideas, well, that's why God created comment boxes.
(NB-Pictures not showing up is not my fault, but my hosts. It should fix itself soon.)
March 18, 2004
I leave for Spring Break in
T- minus 26 minutes and counting. I don't have any big plans, other than to visit a few friends at home. Home being the middle of Wisconsin, so no "Boys Gone Wild" exposé for me (yet).
But! I am now the number one result for raw youth, leaving Doestoevsky, after whom this blog is titled, in my dust. Take that! you dead Russian author.
You better watch your back, Mayakovsky. You're next.
But! I am now the number one result for raw youth, leaving Doestoevsky, after whom this blog is titled, in my dust. Take that! you dead Russian author.
You better watch your back, Mayakovsky. You're next.
March 17, 2004
So I haven't updated for a few days,
because I've been working on a few short stories, and I didn't think anyone would be interested. I could go into details about writing, but I won't, and the story is about 10 pages long, so I won't post it here for everyone. Here is a link to it on DeviantArt, but DeviantArt does not like indentation, so it's a bit annoying to read.
It's a rewrite of Cinderella, where the Prince is gay and Cinderella is an ugly, greedy boar.
In the words of Liz:
"It's got HOT ROYAL MANSEX!!!!"
Intrigued now, aren't you?
It's a rewrite of Cinderella, where the Prince is gay and Cinderella is an ugly, greedy boar.
In the words of Liz:
"It's got HOT ROYAL MANSEX!!!!"
Intrigued now, aren't you?
March 14, 2004
Happy 3.14159265 Day!
While I'm not such an uber geek as to actually celebrate pi day, I am sufficiently geeky to know of this holiday, and that it also marks Einstein's 125th birthday. It's almost fitting, if I gave a damn.
I like pie and all, hell I even loved this pi, but I've better things to do today.
Ok, that's a lie, but I'm not that big of a geek.
March 12, 2004
There's something about
David Leavitt that always makes me want to sit down and write. I suppose, to be accurate, I should say that there's something about David Leavitt's writing that makes me want to sit down and write. There's something about his first person narratives that speak to me in the way that boy band stars talk to pubscent girls: it's all about me. Now I've never met the man, and despite the pictures on the book jacket sleeve I doubt I would recognize him if I bumped into him on the street. But there's something about his work, the eloquent Proustian nature of it, that causes me to identify with him to an almost unhealthy level.
I would probably call Martin Bauman (or: A Sure Thing) my favorite book. In fact, in a previous blog which I shared with my boyfriend of the time, we debated the merits of the book. He found the book's portrayal of the "Gay Eighties" cold and catty, while I found that to be almost exactly my views on most gay culture. I'm fine that the book is, almost to the point of being obnoxious, a memoir with names ommited or changed. So what? When I write, it's usually poetry or short stories, but when I write from a first person, usually in the various blogs, that's how I write. I'm catty, I omit or slightly change names, I hold no qualms about hyperbolizing my life; in fact, I admit freely that I exaggerate.
In a review of the book, I forget where, but the critic said that the book read like a thesis paper from the Truman Capote School of Catty and Cathartic Writing. I forget whether the review meant it as a barb or as a compliment, but I'm sure that if someone described my blog as such, I would be flattered. For me at least, blogging is nothing if it is not cathartic. This is the place where I put things that I feel as though I need to get off of my chest, but don't necessarily want to spend the rest of the week talking about how the roommate and I are worried about the cicisbeo and his stalking behavior. And as for being catty, well, I try and entertain at the same time. I'm not funny like Faustus or Toby, but I'm diligent in my efforts. I'd tell quips if I had them, I'd regale the miniscule number of devoted readers about my childhood had I any that were particularly amusing, I'd make fun of everyone online (like how people chided Bradford a few days ago) were I a member of the clique. So catty and cathartic, in my eyes, isn't so much an insult as it is a standard. ("Catty and Cathartic" would also make a decent tagline, in my opinion).
Returning to the book, there are a lot of things that its characters do that I do as well. I tend to bottle things in, and then, as Leavitt so succinctly puts it, turn tourettic over the slightest problem. I've stayed on the phone, watching TV with someone hours away. I've exaggerated the length I've dated someone; sometimes six weeks feels like six months or even six years, in a good way. In fantasies, I'm always the last resort or only option, I'm not someone whom people fawn over, never the object of desire. I make grandiose statements about people I haven't seen in a while, even though I no longer bear the grudge.
Of course, some of this is selective memory. I last read the book this summer, and I am only remembering the parts I wish to remember, the parts that succinctly with my statement that I feel way too attached to David Leavitt. And I'm okay with that.
That's the whole point of writing, isn't it? To have people connect with and learn from the author, to forge a bond between writer and reader? A good singer makes listeners feel as though the song is being sung just for them, and I guess that this is the same thing.
And so, David Leavitt, if for some reason you decide to google yourself and come across this blog, well, mad props to you.
I would probably call Martin Bauman (or: A Sure Thing) my favorite book. In fact, in a previous blog which I shared with my boyfriend of the time, we debated the merits of the book. He found the book's portrayal of the "Gay Eighties" cold and catty, while I found that to be almost exactly my views on most gay culture. I'm fine that the book is, almost to the point of being obnoxious, a memoir with names ommited or changed. So what? When I write, it's usually poetry or short stories, but when I write from a first person, usually in the various blogs, that's how I write. I'm catty, I omit or slightly change names, I hold no qualms about hyperbolizing my life; in fact, I admit freely that I exaggerate.
In a review of the book, I forget where, but the critic said that the book read like a thesis paper from the Truman Capote School of Catty and Cathartic Writing. I forget whether the review meant it as a barb or as a compliment, but I'm sure that if someone described my blog as such, I would be flattered. For me at least, blogging is nothing if it is not cathartic. This is the place where I put things that I feel as though I need to get off of my chest, but don't necessarily want to spend the rest of the week talking about how the roommate and I are worried about the cicisbeo and his stalking behavior. And as for being catty, well, I try and entertain at the same time. I'm not funny like Faustus or Toby, but I'm diligent in my efforts. I'd tell quips if I had them, I'd regale the miniscule number of devoted readers about my childhood had I any that were particularly amusing, I'd make fun of everyone online (like how people chided Bradford a few days ago) were I a member of the clique. So catty and cathartic, in my eyes, isn't so much an insult as it is a standard. ("Catty and Cathartic" would also make a decent tagline, in my opinion).
Returning to the book, there are a lot of things that its characters do that I do as well. I tend to bottle things in, and then, as Leavitt so succinctly puts it, turn tourettic over the slightest problem. I've stayed on the phone, watching TV with someone hours away. I've exaggerated the length I've dated someone; sometimes six weeks feels like six months or even six years, in a good way. In fantasies, I'm always the last resort or only option, I'm not someone whom people fawn over, never the object of desire. I make grandiose statements about people I haven't seen in a while, even though I no longer bear the grudge.
Of course, some of this is selective memory. I last read the book this summer, and I am only remembering the parts I wish to remember, the parts that succinctly with my statement that I feel way too attached to David Leavitt. And I'm okay with that.
That's the whole point of writing, isn't it? To have people connect with and learn from the author, to forge a bond between writer and reader? A good singer makes listeners feel as though the song is being sung just for them, and I guess that this is the same thing.
And so, David Leavitt, if for some reason you decide to google yourself and come across this blog, well, mad props to you.
March 9, 2004
Remember when I wrote about the
creepy choad, aka the roommate's cicisbeo?
Well, the roommate broke it off, which was good because one of his friends was staging an intervention-- it just wasn't a good idea for the two to be together. The choad, not very happy about this, tells the roommate's boyfriend the truth about them, plus a few things that just weren't true. After a tense, gay drama-filled weekend (my favourite thing in the world! ::rolls eyes::), the roommate and the boyfriend are back together, tentatively.
To call a spade a spade, the choad, former mistress/mister, has turned into a stalker. He's stolen a key for the building, and he knows that we rarely lock our dorm door. Well, we are now! The choad has started to tell more lies about their relationship, and about the roommate. He's been calling and emailing not only the roommate, but me as well. A lot. And we're not pleased. He works as a receptionist for the dance program at school, and leaves messages about the roommate's health forms. Through the grapevine, by the by, we've been able to determine that the choad is still hanging on (well, obviously) and just wants to straighten things out. Unfortunately, the choad has also mentioned wanting to beat the crap out of the roommate for treating him unfairly. Which, as far as I can ascertain, wasn't true.
So that sitdown isn't going to happen anytime soon, what with all the veiled threats of violence and vandalism towards him. And me as well, for reasons beyone my comprehension.
I've told the roommate that I'm calling Campus Security if he shows up at the dorm ever, and I'm meeting with the building supervisor this week to see if he can be banned from the building. The roommate is spending the next few nights over at friend's dorms, just in case.
Had I a digitial camera, I would take a picture of my face to show just how not pleased I am. The roommate and I, we don't need this hateration.
Normally I'm all 'laissez faire' when it comes to things but for some reason I'm oddly protective of the roommate, as big of a dork as he is. It's the big brother in me.
Well, the roommate broke it off, which was good because one of his friends was staging an intervention-- it just wasn't a good idea for the two to be together. The choad, not very happy about this, tells the roommate's boyfriend the truth about them, plus a few things that just weren't true. After a tense, gay drama-filled weekend (my favourite thing in the world! ::rolls eyes::), the roommate and the boyfriend are back together, tentatively.
To call a spade a spade, the choad, former mistress/mister, has turned into a stalker. He's stolen a key for the building, and he knows that we rarely lock our dorm door. Well, we are now! The choad has started to tell more lies about their relationship, and about the roommate. He's been calling and emailing not only the roommate, but me as well. A lot. And we're not pleased. He works as a receptionist for the dance program at school, and leaves messages about the roommate's health forms. Through the grapevine, by the by, we've been able to determine that the choad is still hanging on (well, obviously) and just wants to straighten things out. Unfortunately, the choad has also mentioned wanting to beat the crap out of the roommate for treating him unfairly. Which, as far as I can ascertain, wasn't true.
So that sitdown isn't going to happen anytime soon, what with all the veiled threats of violence and vandalism towards him. And me as well, for reasons beyone my comprehension.
I've told the roommate that I'm calling Campus Security if he shows up at the dorm ever, and I'm meeting with the building supervisor this week to see if he can be banned from the building. The roommate is spending the next few nights over at friend's dorms, just in case.
Had I a digitial camera, I would take a picture of my face to show just how not pleased I am. The roommate and I, we don't need this hateration.
Normally I'm all 'laissez faire' when it comes to things but for some reason I'm oddly protective of the roommate, as big of a dork as he is. It's the big brother in me.
March 6, 2004
Behold the power of Pussy...
Tonight, I went and saw The Vagina Monologues, as performed by the ladies of the Women's Resource Center. I must say that most of the vaginas reeked. Not like lilacs or fish, as one of the skits implies, but their performance. The Angry Vagina was not so much angry, but more irked, as if she received a mocha latte when she ordered a mocha java. The flood was more like a trickle. The vaginas had a terrible time with pronunciation, and I had difficulties understanding them, otherwise I would try and come up with a witty putdown for all the other vaginas. To be fair, a few of the vaginas were fun and talented, but the majority?
Thanks, but, uh, no thanks.
addendum:
Does your weblog own you?
March 5, 2004
The roommate's brother, yet another
dim-witted gay guy in that family, is visiting for the weekend. While making small talk, waiting for the roommate to return from the bathroom, he let it slide that he's covering all costs for the weekend. As it turns out, he's had some luck prostituting himself lately; his latest 'John' was particularly benevolent, and is thusly staying at a nice hotel and taking the roommate and his boyfriend (not the cicisbeo, thankfully) to a nice restaurant.
And to top it all off, next time I'm in Minnesota I get a 50% discount.
Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I wouldn't pay for his sex. That's an ass I wouldn't tap with a ten foot pole.
(Tap his ass with a pole? Holy double entendre, Batman!)
And to top it all off, next time I'm in Minnesota I get a 50% discount.
Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I wouldn't pay for his sex. That's an ass I wouldn't tap with a ten foot pole.
(Tap his ass with a pole? Holy double entendre, Batman!)
So I recently wrote a
sonnet, documented below. It's bad, and for that, I apologize. Unfortunately, that sonnet is the only mildly interesting thing that's happened to me this week, so there it is, forced meter and all. In my own defense, I was never good at 'hard' poetry.
You may insert your own 'hard' joke here.
Guffaw guffaw, to be sure.
Back to the poem, I don't really care that much that the poem isn't my best work. It doesn't matter anyway-- sonnets are so 400 years ago.
Tis shameful thou art filled with so much shame
Thou coverst thyself and hides thyself from all
Who may be so inclined to share thy pain
Who may attach his eye to thy eyeball
And kiss thy lips with n’er a second thought
Given to those who give a damn about
The deals and trials of what they knowest not
Let me deal with their verbal roundabout
The book of love tis not the book of sin
And love, not sin, their laws dictate to them
Thou can be thyself, my sweet minikin
For they must deal with their God in the end
The lie with which you lead your life’s good too
For I’m the only one who sees you true.
You may insert your own 'hard' joke here.
Guffaw guffaw, to be sure.
Back to the poem, I don't really care that much that the poem isn't my best work. It doesn't matter anyway-- sonnets are so 400 years ago.
Tis shameful thou art filled with so much shame
Thou coverst thyself and hides thyself from all
Who may be so inclined to share thy pain
Who may attach his eye to thy eyeball
And kiss thy lips with n’er a second thought
Given to those who give a damn about
The deals and trials of what they knowest not
Let me deal with their verbal roundabout
The book of love tis not the book of sin
And love, not sin, their laws dictate to them
Thou can be thyself, my sweet minikin
For they must deal with their God in the end
The lie with which you lead your life’s good too
For I’m the only one who sees you true.
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