I finally got my hands on the new David Sedaris book, and spent the afternoon on the couch reading, which, surprisingly, came in conflict with mowing the lawn. My mom came in and made a point of noticing my non-lawn-mowing status, and we started some small talk about the book. My mom's a librarian, and I'm on the library board, so it's easy for we bibliobibuli to get carried away. This was one of those times.
We got to talking about David Sedaris: how it was the first book by a gay author she read that didn't revolve about coming out to family or AIDS, how awkward it must be for his family to have all sorts of unflattering stories about their puberty top the NYTimes Best Seller list, how I think that it would be easy for me to write in the same vein.
She said that she could see me writing similar stories, since my family could give Sedaris' a run for their money.
My nuclear family, pronounced noo-klear and not nukular, is fairly normal. I have two sisters: a sixteen year old who studies hard, is a virtuoso clarinetist, and is on various All-City sports teams, and a 14 year old jazz dancer, trombonist, going through an awkward stage, as all high school freshman are prone to do. My parents are normal enough. My mom was engaged to someone, but went out with some friends to a bar and played my dad in foosball, and decided that maybe she wasn't ready to get married at the time. Three months later though, when my dad proposed, she was ready. Very much a made-for-tv movie.
There are stories to be told about them, of course. My dad is about as mature as a three year old, and does things like 'ooh' and 'aah when he sees fireworks on the television. My mom has read every book about the Wild West that our library owns, and was once the district leader of La Leche League, and is consequently one of the most knowledgeable people in the country when it comes to breast-feeding. The 16-year-old sister is your classic middle child trying to overachieve, and the 14-year-old was once suspended from sixth grade for writing a note giving up her dessert if someone would shut her teacher up forever. (It was a few weeks after Columbine, and so the note was seen as the Second Coming of Hitler.)
But really, those stories are all nice and dandy, but the real meat and potatoes of the family can be found in the extended family, the ones that legally we're not allowed to meet.
Well, my grandpa is the only one with whom we're legally not allowed contact, but I like that phrase so I'm sticking to it.
I remember meeting my grandpa Keith once. It was my 6th birthday, and we went to a greasy spoon restaurant. He gave me a rubber band gun and a bagful of rubber bands. My mom had been trying to keep violent toys away from me, and had told my grampa as such, but he didn't think that the gun was all too violent. After all, it only shot rubber bands, not giant foam balls or anything dangerous like that. With a newborn to whom I was still getting accustomed and a toddler whose sycophantic imitations were beginning to get on my nerves, my mom wasn't too pleased with this present or with the power that it would give me. She tried confiscating it from me in the restaurant, but I threatened to cause a scene. I got to hold it until we got home.
When we pulled into the driveway, she turned around in her seat and wrestled it from my greedy little hands, complaining "Why couldn't he have given him a drum set, or something that isn't... this."
The next week, we got a phone call. My grandpa was embezzling funds from local churches, and, when confronted, escaped from police. He was considered armed and dangerous, and if he made any contact with us, we were to call the police.
Apparently, he spent his spare time going door to door throughout the state, claiming to be collecting money so the local church or school could build a new playground. He had amassed over $200,000 before people started getting suspicious. Apparently, he asked the president of some church board for money, which didn't go over too well. He was last seen at my grandma's house, sticking signed divorce papers in the mailbox, and was now on the run.
I overheard all of this when my mom told my dad when he returned from work, when I was ostensibly getting ready for bed. My dad saw me standing near the door, and said something along the lines of "Well, now we know why he gave Bob the gun for his birthday."
It slowly dawned on me; my eyes opened with enlightenment. My grandpa wanted to team up with me and fight the law. I didn't know much about these things, but according to cartoons I assumed we would ride horses throughout the countryside, and stop by little towns by the side of the road. We'd go to a restaurant or saloon, and everyone would stop what they were doing and nervously gawk. They'd point and stare, and when the bartender tried to call the police, my grandpa would pull the phone cord from the wall, and demand a beer. I'd chime in too: "Make mine a root beer" in a nasaly, prepubescent growl. Later, he'd sense something was amiss, and we'd have to shoot our way out, him not so much shooting bullets but the smoke that the chamber emits, and me with my rubber band gun, making the other guys drop their guns and wave their hands in stinging agony.
The next week I practiced my moves like no one's business. I found the rubber band gun in my mom's drawer, and snuck it upstairs to my room. I practiced for hours, cocking poses and practicing catch phrases. My favorite was "RRRRrreach for the starrrrrrs," as I had just caught the hang of rolling my r's.
The gun wouldn't quite fit in my pockets, so I tucked it into my sock, which worked well with my cowboy gait. I practiced bending down and whipping the gun out, but I could never pull my pants leg up, grab the gun, load it, aim and shoot without dropping the gun or accidentally shooting myself in the foot. Eventually I worked out a way to drop to the floor and roll while I loaded my gun, figuring that I'd be escaping stray bullets.
Well, the week went on, and he never showed up. Being a six-year-old boy, my fascination with the cowboy way of life slowly dwindled, since I had to practice without letting my parents know, and there were only so many excuses for the noises I made while rolling around on my floor. I ended up watching (some would say obsessing over) the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and practiced my moves with some neighbor boys from across the street. We would always practice in their yards so my mom wouldn't find out. I soon found that hitting sticks together and kicking the air was much more fun the dropping to the ground and hitting myself with rubber bands.
A few years passed, and eventually the law caught up with my grandpa. He had settled down and gotten married in Missouri, and was living in a trailer park, spending his days watching television. I was crushed. So much for the idea that my grandpa was a cowboy, a rebel with a cause, (though I do like to think that he spent most of his days watching old Western movies).
He was dragged back to Wisconsin and stood trial. He was guilty as all hell, and was convicted in no time at all. If he hadn't run away, he probably only would have been in jail for a few months, but he was sentenced to 10 years in prison. Of course, he couldn't stand to spend 10 years in prison, even though with good behavior he could be out in 5. He faked having a heart attack, and tried running away in his little white gown dragging along his IV. They caught him stealing somebody’s coat to use as a disguise, and his sentence was extended. The guards later found out that he tried to organize a prison break, and his sentence was again extended, and he was sent to a prison further away.
He was just released a few weeks ago, and is now living in a minimum-security retirement home for convicts. He's now in his early seventies, so he spends his time playing cards with the other former inmates and watching Matlock. My mom hasn't seen him for years, and has no plans to. We got a letter from the home, asking for some clothes, but with a complete warning that only my mom could visit; it was one of the sacrifices he made to be admitted into the house.
My mom is the only surviving child, and my grandma still harbors bad feelings from when the house was surrounded by cops who knocked down her front door. He’s only allowed a few visitors, and my sisters and I are not on the list. He’s allowed a few hours outside every day for errands and exercise, but we’re under strict orders not to make any contact with him. They must have known about my cowboy days, and are afraid I’d bust him out of jail with my magnum. They don’t have to worry as I’m not into wearing leather chaps and spurs, but it looks like they’re not taking that chance.
Well, I finished the book and passed it off to my mom, who is now reading it in her room. I have half a mind to tell her the book is evil—I still haven’t mowed the lawn, and there’s half a dryer of towels that she was folding up until David distracted her. The book should come with a warning label: Warning! Reading this book will cause White Trash Housekeeping! Open book at own risk.
June 30, 2004
June 29, 2004
"Oh no... only handjobs!"
Since my friends and I couldn't go see Fahrenheit 911, we decided to rent a bad movie. After a half hour of walking around the store, re-enacting our favorite parts of movies and taking boxes that seemed to house bad movies and make up our own dialogue:
"I'm just a lonely cowgirl. I sure hope that some handsome, mysterious stud will ride up and take me away, and then maybe Gran-pa won't have to sell the farm to the bank. Oh my trusted horse Blossom, whatever shall I do?"
"Howdy, missy. I'm your stable boy with a heart of gold, and I just want to thank you for always being nice to me. As it turns out, my dad just struck it rich in Kal-ii-forn-eye-ay, and I'd like to marry you and save you from all your problems."
"Well, that depends on what my horse says. What do you say, Blossom?"
"Whinnies"
"Oh you."
We were making our way through the store when we all spied the same movie at the same time, and exploded in pre-teen-girl-at-her-first-concert glee: Rub and Tug.
The tagline on the front read "A sensual massage with a comic release," and the back read "It's our business doing pleasure for you."
Three girls, three different backgrounds, all working at a seedy massage parlor. Will the new manager be able to keep these girls in check, or will he be forced to lay down the law in the only way he knows possible?
We had found the worst movie ever. Gigli be damned!
This was, quite possibly, the worst ninety minutes I have ever spent, and I'm including the time I was accosted by the Russian Mafia and when I came out.
There was absolutely no sex whatsoever. The movie was rated R, so we weren't expecting much, but we expected some tits at least. Nope. There was one pseudo-sex scene though. While she was giving the guy a handjob (off-screen), one hand was moving up and down and the other covering her mouth in a yawn, the movie suddenly cut to a dream sequence of her sitting on a park bench, smiling a shit-eating grin, holding an ice cream cone, with flower petals flowing in the wind when the wind turns into moans. The ice cream was starting to drip all over her hand, when she looked down and said, "All done. You like that, big boy?"
We stopped the movie and collectively rolled on the floor in pain for five minutes after that scene.
The movie was so bad we couldn't stop watching. More than once it was related to a car crash. It was the worst thing any of us had ever seen. More than one person recanted their religious affiliation, since there is no God who would allow this movie to exist. Others decided that Osama bin Laden was justified. I toyed with turning into a Republican so I could hate everyone else on earth and enact legislation that would be comprable to the Holocaust.
At the end of the movie, we find it is a product of Canada. Fucking Canucks.
You are all just lucky that I had turned the computer off before I left for the movie. That night, I would have deleted all Canadians from my links list.
I'm not even explaining the half of my hatred for this movie, but I'm starting to cringe just typing about it. Ugh. I'll have to end this now before I go insane.
"I'm just a lonely cowgirl. I sure hope that some handsome, mysterious stud will ride up and take me away, and then maybe Gran-pa won't have to sell the farm to the bank. Oh my trusted horse Blossom, whatever shall I do?"
"Howdy, missy. I'm your stable boy with a heart of gold, and I just want to thank you for always being nice to me. As it turns out, my dad just struck it rich in Kal-ii-forn-eye-ay, and I'd like to marry you and save you from all your problems."
"Well, that depends on what my horse says. What do you say, Blossom?"
"Whinnies"
"Oh you."
We were making our way through the store when we all spied the same movie at the same time, and exploded in pre-teen-girl-at-her-first-concert glee: Rub and Tug.
The tagline on the front read "A sensual massage with a comic release," and the back read "It's our business doing pleasure for you."
Three girls, three different backgrounds, all working at a seedy massage parlor. Will the new manager be able to keep these girls in check, or will he be forced to lay down the law in the only way he knows possible?
We had found the worst movie ever. Gigli be damned!
This was, quite possibly, the worst ninety minutes I have ever spent, and I'm including the time I was accosted by the Russian Mafia and when I came out.
There was absolutely no sex whatsoever. The movie was rated R, so we weren't expecting much, but we expected some tits at least. Nope. There was one pseudo-sex scene though. While she was giving the guy a handjob (off-screen), one hand was moving up and down and the other covering her mouth in a yawn, the movie suddenly cut to a dream sequence of her sitting on a park bench, smiling a shit-eating grin, holding an ice cream cone, with flower petals flowing in the wind when the wind turns into moans. The ice cream was starting to drip all over her hand, when she looked down and said, "All done. You like that, big boy?"
We stopped the movie and collectively rolled on the floor in pain for five minutes after that scene.
The movie was so bad we couldn't stop watching. More than once it was related to a car crash. It was the worst thing any of us had ever seen. More than one person recanted their religious affiliation, since there is no God who would allow this movie to exist. Others decided that Osama bin Laden was justified. I toyed with turning into a Republican so I could hate everyone else on earth and enact legislation that would be comprable to the Holocaust.
At the end of the movie, we find it is a product of Canada. Fucking Canucks.
You are all just lucky that I had turned the computer off before I left for the movie. That night, I would have deleted all Canadians from my links list.
I'm not even explaining the half of my hatred for this movie, but I'm starting to cringe just typing about it. Ugh. I'll have to end this now before I go insane.
June 28, 2004
I'm not a prostitute but I can give you what you want.
No, I'm not breaking rule number 14 by not posting about my lunch with Nate. Instead, I'm toying with turning the post into something for that hot new zine that everyone's talking about. You'll just have to wait for it. I'll try and make it worth the anticip...ation.
Also. I tried watching that silly Michael Moore movie twice on Friday, and it sold out both times while I was waiting in line. I was surprised, since I live about twenty miles from the birthplace of the Republican party, and the movie theatre is only a few blocks from Sen. McCarthy's childhood home. Bowling for Columbine only played for one day, and so to have both shows sold out was a good thing, even though I have to wait until later to see the movie.
Since my friend's and I couldn't see the show on Friday, we rented a movie. I will post more on that tomorrow, as even the thought of it is making me cringe.
Also. I tried watching that silly Michael Moore movie twice on Friday, and it sold out both times while I was waiting in line. I was surprised, since I live about twenty miles from the birthplace of the Republican party, and the movie theatre is only a few blocks from Sen. McCarthy's childhood home. Bowling for Columbine only played for one day, and so to have both shows sold out was a good thing, even though I have to wait until later to see the movie.
Since my friend's and I couldn't see the show on Friday, we rented a movie. I will post more on that tomorrow, as even the thought of it is making me cringe.
June 23, 2004
FYI--
This will be the last post of the week. I'll be spending the next few days in Madison, registering for classes, meeting with landlords, and meeting a blogger in real life. He'll be popping my blogger meet-up cherry, so to speak, and I think I his. I don't know why I think this, but I'm excited nevertheless. I've never met a fellow blogger before, so I don't know how well my online and real-life personas match. This could get interesting.
I'll try and be completely wonderful and charming when I meet him, so that he's inspired to write fantastic things about me and you all can get your daily 'raw youth' dosage, but no guarantees--I'm leaving at five in the morning, taking placement tests for 4 hours, and then meeting him. I may not merit any interesting comments. But I'll try. This, of course, leaves an easy out for me to explain the reason I am not as cool in real life as I am online: it's the waking up before dawn and taking hours of tests that will make me boring; that's not the real me. Of course not.
Hopefully I'll use this time to recharge my blogging batteries. I am fully aware that my posts have been hit or miss lately, and I hope that I'll come back Sunday-ish funky-fresh, dressed to impress and ready to party. It's hard work, updating every day, including weekends. You should try it sometime.
See ya.
I'll try and be completely wonderful and charming when I meet him, so that he's inspired to write fantastic things about me and you all can get your daily 'raw youth' dosage, but no guarantees--I'm leaving at five in the morning, taking placement tests for 4 hours, and then meeting him. I may not merit any interesting comments. But I'll try. This, of course, leaves an easy out for me to explain the reason I am not as cool in real life as I am online: it's the waking up before dawn and taking hours of tests that will make me boring; that's not the real me. Of course not.
Hopefully I'll use this time to recharge my blogging batteries. I am fully aware that my posts have been hit or miss lately, and I hope that I'll come back Sunday-ish funky-fresh, dressed to impress and ready to party. It's hard work, updating every day, including weekends. You should try it sometime.
See ya.
June 22, 2004
Dear stockboys at Copps,
Thank you for your patronage.
Please do not think that I do not notice your stares, your smiles, your oogling as each and every one of you checks me out as I pass through the store, and you all turn a delightful shade of pink when I return a smile or acknowledge you. It's nice to know that all of you are collectively questioning your sexuality, but I don't think I am the guy over whom you should be busting your nuts.
Contrary to popular belief, I have no plans to open a school of faggotry, and am not in the mood to deal with breaking in a newbie. Even if you aren't out to anyone else, at least be able to say to yourself that you like boys. I don't want to deal with guys who look but are too overrun with guilt or shame to touch. Guys are not allowed to blame me for turning them gay; I do not want to be seen as some sort of evil guy who tricked you into sex. If you start flirting with me and I return in kind, and you look to the floor and turn away, well, you're out of the running.
That being said, I have not had any action in nearly eight months, and your coquettish looks are greatly appreciated to this boy who is beginning to wonder if something is physically wrong with him.
I hope there isn't a memo in the break room that requires you to flirt with everyone within a five-year radius, in which case you can all bite me.
But seriously. Being checked out by one guy is nice and two can make my day, especially if it's been a while. But six in the course of a grocery trip? They are either handing out Levitra in the break room or I must have really been working it yesterday.
Please do not think that I do not notice your stares, your smiles, your oogling as each and every one of you checks me out as I pass through the store, and you all turn a delightful shade of pink when I return a smile or acknowledge you. It's nice to know that all of you are collectively questioning your sexuality, but I don't think I am the guy over whom you should be busting your nuts.
Contrary to popular belief, I have no plans to open a school of faggotry, and am not in the mood to deal with breaking in a newbie. Even if you aren't out to anyone else, at least be able to say to yourself that you like boys. I don't want to deal with guys who look but are too overrun with guilt or shame to touch. Guys are not allowed to blame me for turning them gay; I do not want to be seen as some sort of evil guy who tricked you into sex. If you start flirting with me and I return in kind, and you look to the floor and turn away, well, you're out of the running.
That being said, I have not had any action in nearly eight months, and your coquettish looks are greatly appreciated to this boy who is beginning to wonder if something is physically wrong with him.
I hope there isn't a memo in the break room that requires you to flirt with everyone within a five-year radius, in which case you can all bite me.
But seriously. Being checked out by one guy is nice and two can make my day, especially if it's been a while. But six in the course of a grocery trip? They are either handing out Levitra in the break room or I must have really been working it yesterday.
June 21, 2004
to start my blakean year
In approximately six to eight weeks, it will be my birthday. I'm not a big fan of birthdays, or of holidays in general. I'm not even a big fan of getting stuff--in fact, last Christmas, my list to Santa solely consisted donations in my name to the HRC, ACLU, Amnesty International, PETA, etc. Yes, I am a better person than you. I did get a few gifts, which was nice, but I really didn't need any of them. I now get a lot of newsletters now full of sappy stories, but as a college student, all mail is good mail.
That being said, I am a poor college student and do not turn down gifts of any sort, and am conscientious enough to give adequate leeway for shipping.
I'm debating whether or not I should make an Amazon.com wishlist. I guess I'm blegging here. Has anyone ever bought anything for anyone off of a blog's wishlist? Has anyone recieved anything? Does anyone have a wad of cash burning a hole in their fabulous jeans and wish a proper opportunity to prove your love to me? More importantly,does the whole thing make me seem like a greedy git?
Right now, I'm leaning towards not making the list, since most things I want Amazon doesn't cover (e.g. "good writing is sexy" shirt, digital camera, Bush's resignation, true love, world peace) but if anyone out there wants to prove their undying love for me with material goods, well, who am I to stand in their way?
That being said, I am a poor college student and do not turn down gifts of any sort, and am conscientious enough to give adequate leeway for shipping.
I'm debating whether or not I should make an Amazon.com wishlist. I guess I'm blegging here. Has anyone ever bought anything for anyone off of a blog's wishlist? Has anyone recieved anything? Does anyone have a wad of cash burning a hole in their fabulous jeans and wish a proper opportunity to prove your love to me? More importantly,does the whole thing make me seem like a greedy git?
Right now, I'm leaning towards not making the list, since most things I want Amazon doesn't cover (e.g. "good writing is sexy" shirt, digital camera, Bush's resignation, true love, world peace) but if anyone out there wants to prove their undying love for me with material goods, well, who am I to stand in their way?
June 20, 2004
Dear Madison,
Please stop sucking. I was all excited to meet Nate, the first blogger whom I would meet in real life, when I get an email from you that exposed your crappiness. You had called two weeks earlier to ask my Major so I could be placed with the proper advisor. While we were on the phone, you told me that I made it into the session on June 25-26, so I asked off from work those days and made plans to meet up with Nate once I met with a few landlords to find an apartment.
However. I get an email from you Sunday afternoon, which was a shock because who would have thought you'd be open on a Sunday in the summer, asking me to repeat the information you had called to verify two weeks prior. You then mentioned that once you had that information, you would sign me up for the proper registration session.
Au contraire, I said in a snotty French accent. I already have plans for this week. I will be attending this week's registration, to which you reply "Um, we're not sure." The same problem happened to me last year, so I made sure to verify my dates as to ask off work. Now I find that you have failed.
You are a failure, Registration Department at UW Madison. Please stop sucking, or I will be forced to resent you forever.
Love,
Bob.
(edit: Apparently, some one got sick and had to reschedule, so everything works out and I'm good for this weekend. Still, Madison can bite me.)
However. I get an email from you Sunday afternoon, which was a shock because who would have thought you'd be open on a Sunday in the summer, asking me to repeat the information you had called to verify two weeks prior. You then mentioned that once you had that information, you would sign me up for the proper registration session.
Au contraire, I said in a snotty French accent. I already have plans for this week. I will be attending this week's registration, to which you reply "Um, we're not sure." The same problem happened to me last year, so I made sure to verify my dates as to ask off work. Now I find that you have failed.
You are a failure, Registration Department at UW Madison. Please stop sucking, or I will be forced to resent you forever.
Love,
Bob.
(edit: Apparently, some one got sick and had to reschedule, so everything works out and I'm good for this weekend. Still, Madison can bite me.)
June 19, 2004
Ahem.
So I was (cough cough) reading (and definately not oogling) my mom's People magazinelast night--the fifty most eligible bachelors? Yes, please. To paraphrase the Donnas, I'd do 50 boys in 50 nights. Hell, I'd do 50 boys in 50 hours, except for that I wouldn't like to kick out of bed at the sixty minute mark. Yum.
Anyway, after definately not oogling the magazine, I skimmed the rest of it, and came across a little sidebar.
Apparently, Alanis Morissette is engaged to Ryan Reynolds. Or, in other words, God is marrying Van Wilder.
Discuss.
Anyway, after definately not oogling the magazine, I skimmed the rest of it, and came across a little sidebar.
Apparently, Alanis Morissette is engaged to Ryan Reynolds. Or, in other words, God is marrying Van Wilder.
Discuss.
My Ridiculously Raw Youth: A One Act
Me: (exasperated sigh)
Mildly Attractive Coworker: Yeah. I know. When do you get off?
Me: I get off at 5:30.
Mildly Attractive Coworker: Ah, that's not bad.
Me: I can't wait to get off. Getting off is the best.
(Mildly Attractive Coworker stares blankly until a customer interrupts the awkwardness.)
Curtain.
Mildly Attractive Coworker: Yeah. I know. When do you get off?
Me: I get off at 5:30.
Mildly Attractive Coworker: Ah, that's not bad.
Me: I can't wait to get off. Getting off is the best.
(Mildly Attractive Coworker stares blankly until a customer interrupts the awkwardness.)
Curtain.
June 18, 2004
Now how does that song go again?
Yesterday, on my way home from work, I looked to the sky, and found that it was neon green. In the distance I could see the outlines of what looked like pigs flying past the horizon, but I paid no mind.
I later got home and checked my email and had no spam messages whatsoever, though I did recieve an email stating that PayPal was apologizing for being idiots, and another that said Fred Phelps was caught in a threesome with George W Bush and RuPaul on Air Force One. Flipping through the stations, I caught the tail end of a commentary saying that the center of the earth had frozen solid, and that excavators had unearthed a snowball that still maintained its icy shape. After that story, I saw that Fox News had a glowing review of the new Michael Moore film.
And that's when my jaw dropped.
I later got home and checked my email and had no spam messages whatsoever, though I did recieve an email stating that PayPal was apologizing for being idiots, and another that said Fred Phelps was caught in a threesome with George W Bush and RuPaul on Air Force One. Flipping through the stations, I caught the tail end of a commentary saying that the center of the earth had frozen solid, and that excavators had unearthed a snowball that still maintained its icy shape. After that story, I saw that Fox News had a glowing review of the new Michael Moore film.
And that's when my jaw dropped.
June 17, 2004
...though some would say that Bush is already flaming...
I'm sure that you all will agree with me when I say that Fark.com is inundated with slow-minded, closeted, bigoted freaks, and is therefore a huge ass waste of time.
Lately, I've been getting my random-links-to-waste-time fix sated by catch.com, which is blatant in its Republican bashing, and the comments are pertinent and have a better chance of being witty than their Fark counterparts. Plus, they have better automated titles: Fuck peace, I masturbate for the glory, The Christ dude told me it wasn't him, it was Kris Kristofferson, I hate cheerleaders (except for the drunk ones), Russell Crowe should be sprayed with dingo urine, Superheroes don't need calculus!, etc. There are only about 20 links per day, so we're talking cream of the crop here. Fark may have the quantity, but Catch has the quality.
Yesterday, one of the link taglines was so incredibly brilliant that I felt the need to share it with you all.
Bush tells Pope, "God hates Kerry." Pope asks, "Shouldn't you have set yourself ablaze before playing telephone with God & me?"
I swear, I laughed for an unreasonably long amount of time when I heard that.
Lately, I've been getting my random-links-to-waste-time fix sated by catch.com, which is blatant in its Republican bashing, and the comments are pertinent and have a better chance of being witty than their Fark counterparts. Plus, they have better automated titles: Fuck peace, I masturbate for the glory, The Christ dude told me it wasn't him, it was Kris Kristofferson, I hate cheerleaders (except for the drunk ones), Russell Crowe should be sprayed with dingo urine, Superheroes don't need calculus!, etc. There are only about 20 links per day, so we're talking cream of the crop here. Fark may have the quantity, but Catch has the quality.
Yesterday, one of the link taglines was so incredibly brilliant that I felt the need to share it with you all.
Bush tells Pope, "God hates Kerry." Pope asks, "Shouldn't you have set yourself ablaze before playing telephone with God & me?"
I swear, I laughed for an unreasonably long amount of time when I heard that.
June 16, 2004
ode to pretty boys who were my poetry class.
soft-willed infantalists who are
afraid their testosterone might leak
write banalities like
"I am a prisoner of war
in the battle of the sexes"
I wish to take those boys
and lock lips in the midst of a mosh pit
just so they get pissed
it's better to be hated than to behave
besides, anger makes better art than clichés
afraid their testosterone might leak
write banalities like
"I am a prisoner of war
in the battle of the sexes"
I wish to take those boys
and lock lips in the midst of a mosh pit
just so they get pissed
it's better to be hated than to behave
besides, anger makes better art than clichés
June 15, 2004
That's not how I would make a youth raw.....
| How to make a raw youth |
| Ingredients: 1 part friendliness 5 parts humour 1 part joy |
| Method: Blend at a low speed for 30 seconds. Serve with a slice of lustfulness and a pinch of salt. Yum! |
June 14, 2004
Paging Dr. Freud.
This morning, for brunch, I had a banana.
Throughout the afternoon I snacked on carrots and cucumbers dipped in Ranch sauce.
I chewed on the ends of pens and markers while doing some writing.
For dinner, I had a (vegetarian) brat and a dill pickle.
...
...yeah..... I know that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I think that this time it may mean something else.
Damn it's been a while.
Throughout the afternoon I snacked on carrots and cucumbers dipped in Ranch sauce.
I chewed on the ends of pens and markers while doing some writing.
For dinner, I had a (vegetarian) brat and a dill pickle.
...
...yeah..... I know that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I think that this time it may mean something else.
Damn it's been a while.
beautiful boys on a beautiful dance-floor
you're dancing like a beautiful dance whore
A while ago, I posted something about how I was aware that I come off as a cunt in emails. And, conveniently enough, I have an example and a favor to ask of you all.
About a week ago I received an email from Steven asking if I would put a link to him. Now, this email arrived in my junk mail folder, and the title of the email was "HI" so by all means I should have junked it without opening it, but I was feeling adventurous or something. Cosmically I must have known it wasn't junk mail.
His email was nice and sweet. He is working on a website for gay youth and wants me to link to him. While it was nice and all, it sounded a bit like a junk mail scam that permeates guestbooks. The biggest tip-off was that he signed off with "Very Truly Yours," and I doubted he was alluding to G & S. I was going to delete it, but I hated to think about not responding to someone's email. I always try to follow his rules, so I fired off a email asking for justification. He replied, and was a nice guy about it, but I still feel like a dork for questioning him.
However. According to his blog, he is the president of three clubs on his campus, maintains a 3.8 GPA, and runs a non-profit organization in his spare time. That makes him the dork. That also makes him a better person than I am, ergo I hate him. (edit: He maintains he is a sexy dork, and not a normal one.)
Because I feel like a jerk for my email, I'd like to ask everyone to click the above banner 80,000 times to help me repent. I'd like him to have more hits than Tina Turner on her honeymoon. (That's right. I went there.) Otherwise, if you could sign up for his bi-weekly newsletter, that'd be great, too. It's for a good cause: GYUP:Gay Young Urban Professionals Gay Youth Unity Project, which even sounds like something in which you should take an interest,
helping all the young dykes and faggots feel like they belong.
Pretty please? I'll love you forever.
About a week ago I received an email from Steven asking if I would put a link to him. Now, this email arrived in my junk mail folder, and the title of the email was "HI" so by all means I should have junked it without opening it, but I was feeling adventurous or something. Cosmically I must have known it wasn't junk mail.
His email was nice and sweet. He is working on a website for gay youth and wants me to link to him. While it was nice and all, it sounded a bit like a junk mail scam that permeates guestbooks. The biggest tip-off was that he signed off with "Very Truly Yours," and I doubted he was alluding to G & S. I was going to delete it, but I hated to think about not responding to someone's email. I always try to follow his rules, so I fired off a email asking for justification. He replied, and was a nice guy about it, but I still feel like a dork for questioning him.
However. According to his blog, he is the president of three clubs on his campus, maintains a 3.8 GPA, and runs a non-profit organization in his spare time. That makes him the dork. That also makes him a better person than I am, ergo I hate him. (edit: He maintains he is a sexy dork, and not a normal one.)
Because I feel like a jerk for my email, I'd like to ask everyone to click the above banner 80,000 times to help me repent. I'd like him to have more hits than Tina Turner on her honeymoon. (That's right. I went there.) Otherwise, if you could sign up for his bi-weekly newsletter, that'd be great, too. It's for a good cause: GYUP:
helping all the young dykes and faggots feel like they belong.
Pretty please? I'll love you forever.
June 13, 2004
I'm really not very ridiculous, am I?
I went back home filled with this sense of the absurdity of everything on the earth. Nothing was fixed and sure. We all melted into ridiculousness in the end.
Who rocks the party that rocks the Denton Welch?
I rock the party that rocks the Denton Welch.
Who rocks the party that rocks the Denton Welch?
I rock the party that rocks the Denton Welch.
June 12, 2004
Rain On My Parade, Damnit!
There is a parade passing my house as I type. It's the oldest or the biggest or the most superlative in some way Flag Day parade in the world. I don't really care. Parades are stupid. Right now I'm inside, trying to discover whether or not I have some secret mutant abilities that would destroy the parade and everyone watching.
To an unobserved onlooker, my face may appear that I am either jerking off or constipated (ok, maybe a slight yes to the former) but in every science fiction movie I've ever seen, whenever people discover they have mutant abilities, they always contort their faces into hilarious grimaces, which are later obscured due to the awesome pyrotechnics or special effects.
I hate parades. I know I use the phrase 'abhor' to where it doesn't hold the same 'oomph' as it could, but trust me. I've searched online thesauri, and there isn't a word to better extoll my pure, vitriolic hatred for parades.
Well, maybe not for all parades, but only the ones that pass my front lawn. Allow me to recap the joys of last year's parade, so I don't come off as some sort of Scrooge.
On the morning of the parade I was awakened by a 50 year old balding, shirtless man who wanted to use our bathroom. My parents said no, because it was 9 AM and he was already drunk. I saw this take place from my bedroom window, so my judgment might be off, but I don't think his love handles would have fit through our doors. He then went and started talking to a woman in a tank top who was standing on our flowerbed. This was a woman who should never, ever be allowed to wear a tank top, even in the comfort of her own home. She was holding two drinks, and after the guy talked to her for a little bit, they threw their drinks at our porch, missed and hit the garden, and then went into our neighbor's yard, where the guy relieved himself on some hedges. Our neighbor saw this, and proceeded to yell and scream and carry on. Good morning to you too.
Throughout the day, fat people in folding chairs set up their equipment on the lawn between the sidewalk and the street, as they've done for years. Fat people with chubby little kids who leave their sticky fingerprints all over the goddamn place and whine when they run out of cotton candy. Boomboxes play crappy patriotic, country, and religious rock. Now, if I had supernatural powers where I could magically end three styles of music, patriotic, country, and religious rock would cease to exist. Sorry Dolly.
A few people couldn't find a parking spot and so decided to use our driveway without asking. As they explained to my irate father, "Well, what are you, Communist? Why would you need to leave during the parade, eh?" He tried explaining that I had to leave for a rehearsal a few minutes before the parade ended, but they left to find good seats while he was talking to them.
So he called the police and had them ticketed. Unfortunately, there was too much parking on the street for the tow trucks to make it in, so they put a clamp-thing on the front tires until after the parade. After some wheeling and dealing, I was able to eek around their van and make it to rehearsal. According to my mom, after the parade the rest of my family ran inside and hid from them. There was a policeman guiding traffic on the corner, so they didn't try anything, and the tow truck came and took them away once traffic had died down.
The next morning, we awoke to find our sidewalks filled with comments like "Dirty Communists'," "Sadam and Osama lives here," "Athesist Scum," and the like. It was kind of funny: they were so angry, they went out, bought chalk and snuck in during the middle of the night and wrote badly misspelled insults on our sidewalks. Now, I'm not a vengeful person, but even I could think of some better retaliation than that, something that wasn't water-soluble.
Now this year, things have been okay. It's been raining and windy for the past few days, continuing up until this morning. People stayed away for the most part, at most setting down a tarp and leaving for long chunks of time. I liked it. It was quiet and ugly drunk-free. Around noon, however, the sun came out and started to shine like the motherfucker that it is. We have about a third of as many people camping out on our front lawn as we did last year, and they're no where near as annoying as guests from previous years. It's too cold for shirts to be off and tank tops worn without a jacket. The parade is about half-done now, and there has been no major commotion. Yet.
Well, that's enough for today. I've wasted too much time typing this, and I am not a superhero yet. I think I may continue with my attempts, which may or may not look similar to having a wad off at the wrist to the nifty archives to the untrained eye.
To an unobserved onlooker, my face may appear that I am either jerking off or constipated (ok, maybe a slight yes to the former) but in every science fiction movie I've ever seen, whenever people discover they have mutant abilities, they always contort their faces into hilarious grimaces, which are later obscured due to the awesome pyrotechnics or special effects.
I hate parades. I know I use the phrase 'abhor' to where it doesn't hold the same 'oomph' as it could, but trust me. I've searched online thesauri, and there isn't a word to better extoll my pure, vitriolic hatred for parades.
Well, maybe not for all parades, but only the ones that pass my front lawn. Allow me to recap the joys of last year's parade, so I don't come off as some sort of Scrooge.
On the morning of the parade I was awakened by a 50 year old balding, shirtless man who wanted to use our bathroom. My parents said no, because it was 9 AM and he was already drunk. I saw this take place from my bedroom window, so my judgment might be off, but I don't think his love handles would have fit through our doors. He then went and started talking to a woman in a tank top who was standing on our flowerbed. This was a woman who should never, ever be allowed to wear a tank top, even in the comfort of her own home. She was holding two drinks, and after the guy talked to her for a little bit, they threw their drinks at our porch, missed and hit the garden, and then went into our neighbor's yard, where the guy relieved himself on some hedges. Our neighbor saw this, and proceeded to yell and scream and carry on. Good morning to you too.
Throughout the day, fat people in folding chairs set up their equipment on the lawn between the sidewalk and the street, as they've done for years. Fat people with chubby little kids who leave their sticky fingerprints all over the goddamn place and whine when they run out of cotton candy. Boomboxes play crappy patriotic, country, and religious rock. Now, if I had supernatural powers where I could magically end three styles of music, patriotic, country, and religious rock would cease to exist. Sorry Dolly.
A few people couldn't find a parking spot and so decided to use our driveway without asking. As they explained to my irate father, "Well, what are you, Communist? Why would you need to leave during the parade, eh?" He tried explaining that I had to leave for a rehearsal a few minutes before the parade ended, but they left to find good seats while he was talking to them.
So he called the police and had them ticketed. Unfortunately, there was too much parking on the street for the tow trucks to make it in, so they put a clamp-thing on the front tires until after the parade. After some wheeling and dealing, I was able to eek around their van and make it to rehearsal. According to my mom, after the parade the rest of my family ran inside and hid from them. There was a policeman guiding traffic on the corner, so they didn't try anything, and the tow truck came and took them away once traffic had died down.
The next morning, we awoke to find our sidewalks filled with comments like "Dirty Communists'," "Sadam and Osama lives here," "Athesist Scum," and the like. It was kind of funny: they were so angry, they went out, bought chalk and snuck in during the middle of the night and wrote badly misspelled insults on our sidewalks. Now, I'm not a vengeful person, but even I could think of some better retaliation than that, something that wasn't water-soluble.
Now this year, things have been okay. It's been raining and windy for the past few days, continuing up until this morning. People stayed away for the most part, at most setting down a tarp and leaving for long chunks of time. I liked it. It was quiet and ugly drunk-free. Around noon, however, the sun came out and started to shine like the motherfucker that it is. We have about a third of as many people camping out on our front lawn as we did last year, and they're no where near as annoying as guests from previous years. It's too cold for shirts to be off and tank tops worn without a jacket. The parade is about half-done now, and there has been no major commotion. Yet.
Well, that's enough for today. I've wasted too much time typing this, and I am not a superhero yet. I think I may continue with my attempts, which may or may not look similar to having a wad off at the wrist to the nifty archives to the untrained eye.
June 11, 2004
The Day of Mourning.
I've been rattling my brain to think of something to write about Reagan; it seems like the 'it' thing to do lately. As hard as I've been trying, I just can't seem to get riled up or care all too much. I mean, I barely knew him. He was elected the year I was born-- am I dating myself by saying that? (Well, it's not like anyone else is dating me.)
Erm. Yeah. When I start making jokes that bad it's time for the post to end.
Erm. Yeah. When I start making jokes that bad it's time for the post to end.
June 10, 2004
Two quick things:
1. Two posts ago, right before that crappy poem, I mentioned that my grandfather, whom I abhor, scheduled a meeting for me with the local recruitment office for my birthday last year. To be fair, I exaggerated a bit. He gave me his card, said that he knew the guy and that he was going to call me that week to schedule a meeting. Fortunately, I was out of the house at the time (I think I was on a date, which may or may not make the story more interesting) and whoops! I 'accidentally' deleted the message from the machine when I got home, though I kind of wish I had gone to the meeting, just because it would make for a great story: to see how many overtly nelly things I could say before he cocked an eyebrow and said that he had a meeting he forgot about or whatever. The guy didn't call back, and the next time I saw my grandfather, I changed the subject quickly.
I have a step-cousin (whom I've met once) who apparently took my grandfather seriously and met with the recruitment agent. He was an army brat though, and I think he would have enlisted without my grandfather's help. Unfortunately, he didn't make it past boot camp. He was sent home after two weeks because he became uncontrollably sick due to food allergies. Instead of, you know, giving him medicine or finding other food for him to eat, he was forced to do push-ups until he passed out. After that happened 4 or 5 times, he got a honorable discharge and was sent to the hospital where he was finally treated. The sergeant or lieutenant or whatever ended up getting in a lot of trouble for seriously endangering his life. Since then, there's been no talk of me enlisting, thank goodness.
2. Chrisafer is my new favorite person in the history of ever, for the gorgeous imagery in this post:
I have a step-cousin (whom I've met once) who apparently took my grandfather seriously and met with the recruitment agent. He was an army brat though, and I think he would have enlisted without my grandfather's help. Unfortunately, he didn't make it past boot camp. He was sent home after two weeks because he became uncontrollably sick due to food allergies. Instead of, you know, giving him medicine or finding other food for him to eat, he was forced to do push-ups until he passed out. After that happened 4 or 5 times, he got a honorable discharge and was sent to the hospital where he was finally treated. The sergeant or lieutenant or whatever ended up getting in a lot of trouble for seriously endangering his life. Since then, there's been no talk of me enlisting, thank goodness.
2. Chrisafer is my new favorite person in the history of ever, for the gorgeous imagery in this post:
(Complaining about The Day After Tomorrow.) To be fair, I haven't seen it yet, but I think the movie would have been much more interesting if it were a sudden heatwave instead of an instant ice age. "Quick, Jake, get naked and pour this bucket of ice cold water on yourself. Here, let me run ice cubes up and down your chest."
The Ballad of Set
I’m as horny as frat boys in August
High as a kite on the 4th of July
And you may note:
A fist of raincoats
I’m going to get me a handful of guys
I wear hot pink on the outside
Cause hot pink is how I feel on the inside
I don’t wear much on the outside
Cause I don’t have much on the inside
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
Get in my bed
I’m your Mr. Present Tense
Mr. Right Now
Mr. Action Verb
I’m just looking for some fun
My eyes gazing on some young ones
I’m your mystery man
Impeccably coifed
Impeccably tanned
I’m just looking for the same
Oh don’t ask me for my name
I’m catty and gay: I’m a faggot in spades
A cliché coming true
I’m a versatile whore so you know you’ll get yours
Your wet dream coming true
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
I’m ready and willing
For your bed
I’m as horny as frat guys in earnest
I have kissed all inhibitions goodbye
I don’t give a damn
Long as I get my man
I’m in lust
I’m in lust
And the men
Whom I lust
They’re hung like a fucking horse!
High as a kite on the 4th of July
And you may note:
A fist of raincoats
I’m going to get me a handful of guys
I wear hot pink on the outside
Cause hot pink is how I feel on the inside
I don’t wear much on the outside
Cause I don’t have much on the inside
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
Get in my bed
I’m your Mr. Present Tense
Mr. Right Now
Mr. Action Verb
I’m just looking for some fun
My eyes gazing on some young ones
I’m your mystery man
Impeccably coifed
Impeccably tanned
I’m just looking for the same
Oh don’t ask me for my name
I’m catty and gay: I’m a faggot in spades
A cliché coming true
I’m a versatile whore so you know you’ll get yours
Your wet dream coming true
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
I’m ready and willing
For your bed
I’m as horny as frat guys in earnest
I have kissed all inhibitions goodbye
I don’t give a damn
Long as I get my man
I’m in lust
I’m in lust
And the men
Whom I lust
They’re hung like a fucking horse!
June 9, 2004
Props to the 'rents.
It's my parents' 25th anniversary today. Snaps to them, I guess.
Since I am a poor college student, I didn't make with the bling-bling. (25 years is Silver, just so you know.) I suppose I could have worked something out with my sisters, but I didn't.
My gift isn't going to matter in the long run anyway.
My grandma recently got married to a man I abhor. When they got married, she sold her house and moved in with him, and as a result, she's become a bit more conservative and slightly loaded. Ok, more than slightly loaded. She's so happy that they made it to 25 years that she's taking them on a Caribbean cruise.
"It's just so happy to see that people still preserve the sanctity of marriage, we wanted to reward that."
I'm happy for them. This will be the first time my Mom has flown in over twenty years, and the first time either of them has left the country. They leave on Sunday, and they're all aflutter, shopping for new outfits and packing.
The only downside to this trip is that my grandparents are accompanying them. The guy my grandma married is the most conservative man I've ever met. My grandma had your standard elderly conservatism going on, but he took her to a whole new level. He is extremely religious and patriotic, and he served in WWII. That's not a fault, but when he scheduled a meeting with my local recruiter for a birthday present, well, that's when the vitriol hits the fan.
As nice as it would be to go on a cruise, I don't envy my parents one bit. I mean, I wouldn't want to go on a cruise with my parents (but then again, a gay cruise is a whole other ballgame).
But I did my best for a gift: two kickass seats to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged), which is one of my dad's favorites. Hopefully it'll take his mind off of spending a week and a half with a man who says a prayer before having a tic-tac.
Since I am a poor college student, I didn't make with the bling-bling. (25 years is Silver, just so you know.) I suppose I could have worked something out with my sisters, but I didn't.
My gift isn't going to matter in the long run anyway.
My grandma recently got married to a man I abhor. When they got married, she sold her house and moved in with him, and as a result, she's become a bit more conservative and slightly loaded. Ok, more than slightly loaded. She's so happy that they made it to 25 years that she's taking them on a Caribbean cruise.
"It's just so happy to see that people still preserve the sanctity of marriage, we wanted to reward that."
I'm happy for them. This will be the first time my Mom has flown in over twenty years, and the first time either of them has left the country. They leave on Sunday, and they're all aflutter, shopping for new outfits and packing.
The only downside to this trip is that my grandparents are accompanying them. The guy my grandma married is the most conservative man I've ever met. My grandma had your standard elderly conservatism going on, but he took her to a whole new level. He is extremely religious and patriotic, and he served in WWII. That's not a fault, but when he scheduled a meeting with my local recruiter for a birthday present, well, that's when the vitriol hits the fan.
As nice as it would be to go on a cruise, I don't envy my parents one bit. I mean, I wouldn't want to go on a cruise with my parents (but then again, a gay cruise is a whole other ballgame).
But I did my best for a gift: two kickass seats to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged), which is one of my dad's favorites. Hopefully it'll take his mind off of spending a week and a half with a man who says a prayer before having a tic-tac.
June 8, 2004
NB-
I'm a bit blogged out for today, so nothing interesting. Some of my livejournal buddies got a bit uppity and started bringing the hateration of my high school, which, for those of you just joining us, was a charter arts school and it was fabulous. I ended up writing a 2+ page diatribe against the haters. I didn't so much put in my two cents as much as I dropped those two pennies from the Empire State and hoped they lodged themselves in certain people's foreheads.
The bitching can be found here, for those interested. Otherwise, I'll try and have something good for tomorrow.
The bitching can be found here, for those interested. Otherwise, I'll try and have something good for tomorrow.
I'm a lean, mean (posting) machine.
I'm not a big fan of sports. I'm fair-to-decent at them, but it's rare that I would ever devote an afternoon to tossing a ball around.
In elementary school, I excelled at most gym activities. I was able to run around the block the second fastest in the school. I was the first person in my grade to kick the ball over the fence during kickball. I won Jump Rope for Heart in third and fourth grade. I had golden hands for playing touch football during recess.
Sometime during junior high, I developed a distaste for gym class, probably because pretty much my entire class was fell off the puberty tree, and was smacked in the face by every branch on the way down. (I include myself only slightly in this category.) For the most part, adverting my eyes in the locker room wasn't to hide my sexuality, but rather to protect my eyes from the unruly flesh, back acne, and body hair.
And so I became a bastard in gym class. I skipped the mile. (Skipped as in "Loo, loo, skip to my loo," not skipping the class.) I only looked interested in soccer when the teacher was looking my direction. I learned the graceful art of 'accidentally' kicking the ball while retrieving it. I once spent an entire class period half-heartedly chasing a ball. It was brilliant.
Then came Renaissance, my arts charter high school. I took dance lessons, hardcore dance lessons in Modern and Jazz. I wasn't bad at them, but really. If you haven't been taking dance lessons since before you could walk, you're not going to be a good dancer. I also took a stage combat class, which was more goofing off than actual work.
I don't exercise any more. I don't lift weights, I don't run, I don't play sports, but stil I remain thin. My BMI is 19, which makes me pretty damn close to clinically underweight, and according to the height/weight charts online, I'm below the recommended color bar. I'm a vegetarian, so that might help explain my svelte physique, and I am a 'youngun' so my metabolism hasn't gone to pot yet. But I don't think that's the reason for my waif-like status.
Apparently, for most of my teen years I developed a healthy exercise regimen that explains my lean demeanor. I would think that finding a workout partner would help speed along my progress, but until that happens, I guess I'll keep on doing what I've been doing. It's worked well for me so far. Unfortunately, I didn't keep records last month, so I can't tell for sure how much weight I lost, but I will say that my jeans have been feeling a bit baggy lately.
In elementary school, I excelled at most gym activities. I was able to run around the block the second fastest in the school. I was the first person in my grade to kick the ball over the fence during kickball. I won Jump Rope for Heart in third and fourth grade. I had golden hands for playing touch football during recess.
Sometime during junior high, I developed a distaste for gym class, probably because pretty much my entire class was fell off the puberty tree, and was smacked in the face by every branch on the way down. (I include myself only slightly in this category.) For the most part, adverting my eyes in the locker room wasn't to hide my sexuality, but rather to protect my eyes from the unruly flesh, back acne, and body hair.
And so I became a bastard in gym class. I skipped the mile. (Skipped as in "Loo, loo, skip to my loo," not skipping the class.) I only looked interested in soccer when the teacher was looking my direction. I learned the graceful art of 'accidentally' kicking the ball while retrieving it. I once spent an entire class period half-heartedly chasing a ball. It was brilliant.
Then came Renaissance, my arts charter high school. I took dance lessons, hardcore dance lessons in Modern and Jazz. I wasn't bad at them, but really. If you haven't been taking dance lessons since before you could walk, you're not going to be a good dancer. I also took a stage combat class, which was more goofing off than actual work.
I don't exercise any more. I don't lift weights, I don't run, I don't play sports, but stil I remain thin. My BMI is 19, which makes me pretty damn close to clinically underweight, and according to the height/weight charts online, I'm below the recommended color bar. I'm a vegetarian, so that might help explain my svelte physique, and I am a 'youngun' so my metabolism hasn't gone to pot yet. But I don't think that's the reason for my waif-like status.
Apparently, for most of my teen years I developed a healthy exercise regimen that explains my lean demeanor. I would think that finding a workout partner would help speed along my progress, but until that happens, I guess I'll keep on doing what I've been doing. It's worked well for me so far. Unfortunately, I didn't keep records last month, so I can't tell for sure how much weight I lost, but I will say that my jeans have been feeling a bit baggy lately.
June 7, 2004
As it turns out, we do need this hateration
Sorry for not posting yesterday. I spent the day flitting from graduation party to graduation party like some sort of socially transmitted disease. I didn't have a lot of fun at the parties, but rather stuck around afterwards and hung out. I do better in small groups, about six or less. Any more than that, and I tend to become subdued.
But! I did become schooled in the brilliant game known as hateball. (In honor of Harry Potter, all positive adjectives have become irrelevant and have been replaced with brilliant.)
Hateball is a game where everyone stands around in a bunch. The person with the ball lists something they hate, and then whips the ball to someone else, and they they list something they hate.
Objects of hateration included:
You get the idea. Also, we went through the various yearbooks and honed our gaydar. Our sirens got quite the workout, let me tell you.
Also, I believe that this guy has developed a crush on me. I am amused.
But! I did become schooled in the brilliant game known as hateball. (In honor of Harry Potter, all positive adjectives have become irrelevant and have been replaced with brilliant.)
Hateball is a game where everyone stands around in a bunch. The person with the ball lists something they hate, and then whips the ball to someone else, and they they list something they hate.
Objects of hateration included:
fat boys with lisps
Mrs. Voight's mullet
my favorite tv show was preempted for crappy Reagan-ness
I had to give a handjob to somebody for gas money
Shelley is really pretty but she's a bitch
your mother
people who own the tshirt that says 2QT2BSTR8
elevator music
fat girls wearing tank tops and low rise jeans
bigots who pronounce the R in (the n-word)
'Wicked' didn't win best Musical
we're out of salsa
You get the idea. Also, we went through the various yearbooks and honed our gaydar. Our sirens got quite the workout, let me tell you.
Also, I believe that this guy has developed a crush on me. I am amused.
June 5, 2004
Link Dump.
I've got nothing interesting for today, so I'll leave you all with the random links I found throughout the week. If I were in the mood, I'd elaborate upon and devote an entire post to each, with personal experiences, commentary, etc. but I'm not going to. Instead, it's just a 'wham bam here's some links, ma'am.'
Satan in the Groin!
Dance Dance Resurrection
Christian Hanky Code
Superpope!
Use your body as a billboard
Jesus is my poolboy
How to seem smarter
Happy linking! (PS. Links will open in new window)
Satan in the Groin!
Dance Dance Resurrection
Christian Hanky Code
Superpope!
Use your body as a billboard
Jesus is my poolboy
How to seem smarter
Happy linking! (PS. Links will open in new window)
June 4, 2004
The phone rings at 11:26 last night.
My parents: "There's been an accident, somebody's hurt"
My sister: "Somebody broke up. They're in tears and they want to talk to me"
Me: Well, I didn't have a clue why anyone would be calling.
Tina (via the phone): OHMYGODHARRYPOTTER C'MON BOB LET'S GO SEE IT!!!
Me: Ok.
Midnight showing of Harry Potter. Jaw-dropping. Visual orgasm, directed by the love child of Julie Taymor, Peter Jackson, Tim Burton, Erich von Stroheim and Ang Lee, if such a thing were possible. Best movie I've seen in a long time.
More later, as it is 3:15 right now, and I work 8 hours tomorrow.
I mean today. Fuck.
My sister: "Somebody broke up. They're in tears and they want to talk to me"
Me: Well, I didn't have a clue why anyone would be calling.
Tina (via the phone): OHMYGODHARRYPOTTER C'MON BOB LET'S GO SEE IT!!!
Me: Ok.
Midnight showing of Harry Potter. Jaw-dropping. Visual orgasm, directed by the love child of Julie Taymor, Peter Jackson, Tim Burton, Erich von Stroheim and Ang Lee, if such a thing were possible. Best movie I've seen in a long time.
More later, as it is 3:15 right now, and I work 8 hours tomorrow.
I mean today. Fuck.
June 3, 2004
Give you some-some-some of this Cinnabun
I originally had this on my livejournal a few weeks ago, but with the name yabbadabbadude, there are only so many times I can be called ambitious and brainy without the urge to go out and donate a thesaurus to the website. I added commentary below, so that it looks like I at least spent a few minutes working on this post. Which I did. I think you guys are worth it, so I work it, and put my things down, flip them, and reverse them. It's all for you.
Name Acronym Generator
From Go-Quiz.com
Respectable-Almost too much so. I mean, I'm glad my friends think highly of me, but for a while there, I was trotted out in front of everyone's family, after they came out as an example that all gay kids aren't, you know, batshit insane.
Artsy-Prom King of an Arts school, who named his blog after Dostoevsky and has a mix tape of Shostakovich in his stereo as I type this? Sounds about right to me.
Wired-I've got a basic knowledge of HTML, and I occasionally scan gizmodo, but it's not like I'm a cyborg or anything.
Yum-Well, I guess that's debatable. I am a vegetarian who likes his citrus fruits and drinks the daily recommended amount of water, but I guess you guys will just have to find out for yourselves...
Old-Seeing as how I stopped being jailbait this millenium, I don't think I can qualify as being old. I like to think that I have an old soul; after all, I was the most mature person in my grade since elementary school, but since I'm not even old enough to drink, I don't think I count as old.
Unusual-Cue the Cyndi Lauper!
Tasty-Again, you're just going to have to find out for yourself. Though since it's mentioned twice, I think the meme guys are convinced.
Healthy-I don't drink, don't smoke, so what do I do? Well, I have a BMI of 19.1, which is on the cusp of being too low; not many guys over 6' weigh less than 150 lbs. But I don't have a six pack or anything to speak of, so whatever.
| R | Respectable |
| A | Artsy |
| W | Wired |
| Y | Yum |
| O | Old |
| U | Unusual |
| T | Tasty |
| H | Healthy |
Name Acronym Generator
From Go-Quiz.com
Respectable-Almost too much so. I mean, I'm glad my friends think highly of me, but for a while there, I was trotted out in front of everyone's family, after they came out as an example that all gay kids aren't, you know, batshit insane.
Artsy-Prom King of an Arts school, who named his blog after Dostoevsky and has a mix tape of Shostakovich in his stereo as I type this? Sounds about right to me.
Wired-I've got a basic knowledge of HTML, and I occasionally scan gizmodo, but it's not like I'm a cyborg or anything.
Yum-Well, I guess that's debatable. I am a vegetarian who likes his citrus fruits and drinks the daily recommended amount of water, but I guess you guys will just have to find out for yourselves...
Old-Seeing as how I stopped being jailbait this millenium, I don't think I can qualify as being old. I like to think that I have an old soul; after all, I was the most mature person in my grade since elementary school, but since I'm not even old enough to drink, I don't think I count as old.
Unusual-Cue the Cyndi Lauper!
Tasty-Again, you're just going to have to find out for yourself. Though since it's mentioned twice, I think the meme guys are convinced.
Healthy-I don't drink, don't smoke, so what do I do? Well, I have a BMI of 19.1, which is on the cusp of being too low; not many guys over 6' weigh less than 150 lbs. But I don't have a six pack or anything to speak of, so whatever.
June 2, 2004
My Jakey-wakey
Apropos his question, I'd like to state that yes, Jake Gyllenhaal is the new "It" boy. For bloggers, at least. I mean, c'mon. Look at him.
Of course, I'd like to point out that I was one of the first on his bandwagon (and one of the first who wanted his caboose as well). I saw him in the West End debuting This Is Our Youth years ago, where I sat behind Natalie Portman and her beau at the time. He looked dumb and cute. The beau, not Jake. Jake looked hot. I of course loved Donnie Darko when it came out, and I even wrote a paper on the social commentary (via Morris Dees) in Bubble Boy. I used his pictures as a background in two blogs when I was in high school.
In other words: I had my eyes on him first, so back off, bitches. He's mine.
Of course, I'd like to point out that I was one of the first on his bandwagon (and one of the first who wanted his caboose as well). I saw him in the West End debuting This Is Our Youth years ago, where I sat behind Natalie Portman and her beau at the time. He looked dumb and cute. The beau, not Jake. Jake looked hot. I of course loved Donnie Darko when it came out, and I even wrote a paper on the social commentary (via Morris Dees) in Bubble Boy. I used his pictures as a background in two blogs when I was in high school.
In other words: I had my eyes on him first, so back off, bitches. He's mine.
June 1, 2004
To those of you who've emailed me, or introduced themselved to me via AIM:
If I seem like a cunt online, I'm sorry. Sometimes I'll reread an email I wrote, with the original message as an attachment, and I'll think, "Wow. I'm such a jerk. No wonder I have no friends." I'm better in real life, I promise. Same thing with AIM. You can still feel free to contact me though; I could use the practice. Eventually, I will get the hang of it, just like I’ve gotten the hang of blogging, and will be able to, you know, have conversations with people online without sounding like a huge cunt.
Speaking of huge cunts, Ang Lee should be raped by a mob of Orcs while Celine Dion serenades him, with Bush reading from his Bible and neo-Nazi Barbies shoved into any orifices not being defiled.
"Ang said two men herding sheep was far more sexual than two men having sex on screen.” The divine Jake Gyllenhaal said that.
What is that, some kind of sick joke? I want my hot sweaty mansex, goddamnit!
Speaking of huge cunts, Ang Lee should be raped by a mob of Orcs while Celine Dion serenades him, with Bush reading from his Bible and neo-Nazi Barbies shoved into any orifices not being defiled.
"Ang said two men herding sheep was far more sexual than two men having sex on screen.” The divine Jake Gyllenhaal said that.
What is that, some kind of sick joke? I want my hot sweaty mansex, goddamnit!
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