Blah blah debates Kerry won blah blah blah. There. I talked about the debates. Now I'll fit in.
Anyhoo, don't forget that the Amendment was soundly defeated. It's a good thing.
Also, I'd just like to point out that in my completely scientific, totally accurate survey of our dorm, only ugly overweight girls liked Bush. I'm just saying.
September 30, 2004
This is a cheap shot. And you know you love it.
Unlike Britney Spears, I happen to have class.
4 classes, to be exact, after dropping and adding a class. I write this because I'm going to be updating the biography soon, it's easier to easier to link to this post instead of describing classes in the bio and because people have asked. I'll try and make it not as boring as the actual classes.
First, let's begin with the class I dropped: Art History: Renaissance to the Present. I took an art history class last year, and I didn't find out that my credits would transfer until after school started. Bastard administrators. The professor was from one of those countries in Eastern Europe that nobody gives a damn about (Albania, anyone?) and had terrible pronunciation. I've taken Art History classes in the past, and so I knew that Giotto doesn't have five syllables. While that wasn't much of a problem for the big art names, it was difficult distinguishing between Broederlam and Bondone, and that's saying something.
I might have kept with the class, just because art history comes naturally to me, except that the TA/discussion leader also had problems with the English language, having recently moved from Sudan. He said things like "You come to class I teach you things. I help with art and learning." Yes, that is verbatim (I took notes). I walked out of the discussion group after ten minutes because it hurt so much.
After dropping that class, I picked up an American Literature class. It's not bad, since I've already took an AmLit class last year, but only post-James. The teacher reminds me of one of my favorite teachers from high school, the one who after catching us skipping class took my best friend and I out to coffee. He starts class by playing contemporary music that slightly relates to the topic at hand (Bob Marley for Emerson, PJ Harvey for Fuller). Even though "To Bring You My Love" isn't my favorite PJ Harvey song, having it playing over the loudspeakers as I walked into class was a sure way into my heart.
I'm also taking a Shakespeare class. The teacher looks like Michael Moore's father, but British and with mismatching ties instead of baseball caps. Professor Knowles teaches the class, and he introduced himself by proclaiming that he is of no relation to that other Knowles, even though his body, after comparison, is the more bootylicious of the two. (Trust you me, it's not.) He'll also deadpans things like "If you didn't cry after reading this play (Richard II), then your heart pumps black bile and you boil small children to make soap." He also does things like not talk about the play, which is nice since I think Shakespeare is overrated. "Notice how 'Two Gentlemen of Verona' is like a Gilbert & Sullivan opera. Let's spend the next twenty minutes talking about how good 'Pirates of Penzance' is." He also uses a lot of superfluous commas in his handouts, which is another sure way into my heart.
My Logic class is really annoying as I am not inspired in any way shape or form. Fortunately, this is the teacher's first year, and he looks to be about 25 (and not a bad looking 25 year old either). Unfortunately, he tries to make me understand things like the following:
4 classes, to be exact, after dropping and adding a class. I write this because I'm going to be updating the biography soon, it's easier to easier to link to this post instead of describing classes in the bio and because people have asked. I'll try and make it not as boring as the actual classes.
First, let's begin with the class I dropped: Art History: Renaissance to the Present. I took an art history class last year, and I didn't find out that my credits would transfer until after school started. Bastard administrators. The professor was from one of those countries in Eastern Europe that nobody gives a damn about (Albania, anyone?) and had terrible pronunciation. I've taken Art History classes in the past, and so I knew that Giotto doesn't have five syllables. While that wasn't much of a problem for the big art names, it was difficult distinguishing between Broederlam and Bondone, and that's saying something.
I might have kept with the class, just because art history comes naturally to me, except that the TA/discussion leader also had problems with the English language, having recently moved from Sudan. He said things like "You come to class I teach you things. I help with art and learning." Yes, that is verbatim (I took notes). I walked out of the discussion group after ten minutes because it hurt so much.
After dropping that class, I picked up an American Literature class. It's not bad, since I've already took an AmLit class last year, but only post-James. The teacher reminds me of one of my favorite teachers from high school, the one who after catching us skipping class took my best friend and I out to coffee. He starts class by playing contemporary music that slightly relates to the topic at hand (Bob Marley for Emerson, PJ Harvey for Fuller). Even though "To Bring You My Love" isn't my favorite PJ Harvey song, having it playing over the loudspeakers as I walked into class was a sure way into my heart.
I'm also taking a Shakespeare class. The teacher looks like Michael Moore's father, but British and with mismatching ties instead of baseball caps. Professor Knowles teaches the class, and he introduced himself by proclaiming that he is of no relation to that other Knowles, even though his body, after comparison, is the more bootylicious of the two. (Trust you me, it's not.) He'll also deadpans things like "If you didn't cry after reading this play (Richard II), then your heart pumps black bile and you boil small children to make soap." He also does things like not talk about the play, which is nice since I think Shakespeare is overrated. "Notice how 'Two Gentlemen of Verona' is like a Gilbert & Sullivan opera. Let's spend the next twenty minutes talking about how good 'Pirates of Penzance' is." He also uses a lot of superfluous commas in his handouts, which is another sure way into my heart.
My Logic class is really annoying as I am not inspired in any way shape or form. Fortunately, this is the teacher's first year, and he looks to be about 25 (and not a bad looking 25 year old either). Unfortunately, he tries to make me understand things like the following:
(-A & -B) → (-C v -D), (E v -F) →-A, -H → (B → J), -F & -H = -D
Fortunately, it's easy for me to stop by during his office hours for oogling help. He has really nice legs. The TA is ugly though, which makes the discussion group grating.
Rounding out the sixteen credits is my Nutrition class. It's going pretty slowly--did you know that there's a pyramid, and it demonstrates how many fruits and vegetables you should eat in a day? And that long ago, in a land far far away, humans used to grow their own food, or sometimes even hunt animals for food? It's fascinating, except that it's on the other side of campus (up two hills!) and it's my earliest class. It's gotten better lately, because we're talking about Carbohydrates this week, and he absolutely despises Atkins. Low carb diets will make you stupid and slow.
Seriously. Science proves it. Atkins (and the South Beach guys) didn't use proper methods to determine a lot of their results, and most real dietitians want to beat the shit out of them for toying with people's health. Your brain and neurological system can only use the amino acids from glycogen (which comes from carbs), and deficiencies can make you slow, both in reaction and in thought.
If I were a better, hotter blogger, I would come up with a witty ending to this, but unfortunately I'm not.
September 29, 2004
Bush is a fag.
Early this morning in a surprise announcement the White House proclaimed that the president had in fact become a homosexual. "The president has recently learned of his desire for male on male intercourse and is working closely with his doctors to rectify the situation," said White House press secretary Scott McClellan.
"These past few days have been all about the cock," according to our source in the administration, speaking on the condition of anonymity. "I cannot get the idea of Rummy's crotch-viper slithering its way into my stinkhole out of my head. I mean, God damn! What more could I want than to be filled? Every orifice. I bet you John [Kerry] has a fantastic set of balls... I can almost feel them slapping against my chest as I take him to the hilt. If only he could win the election so I could "show" him around the White House, we'd make Clinton and that lady look like a couple of fucking heteros."
President Bush issued a short statement:
"I am a fag. I tried to warn America. I said we needed a constitutional amendment. I said sanctity. I said values. Those little sissy liberals cried foul and pouted about 'rights' to make me sound like a Nazi. Now look what happened, America. Pay attention. They have turned me, a beacon of honest, values and good-old-boy smarts, into a cum-guzzling fag-o-tron. I will get better. God is on my side. I urge you now, America, in these troubled times, to stand up, fight the gay community and anyone who isn't a real human." The president was escorted out at that point.
Alright, that's enough. That was my funny article about Bush being a fag. The point is that it is ridiculous that this is an issue. Shut the fuck up. Everyone calm the hell down and look around. It does not matter if that person next to you likes to have sex with people that look like anything. It does not matter. It will never matter. If you are religious and you think that it matters and we need to pass legislation to stop people from having sex with other people and loving other people then you are a fucking bigot and I hate you. We live in a time and place that should have no room for bigotry especially from the people who appear to run this country. Shut the fuck up. All of you.
I love the opinion page of the student newspaper.
September 28, 2004
Brilliant Modern Art
I can’t think of a reason to wash my face tonight
who cares about zits when you’re toxifying your life
I feel just like a huge zit
but if I popped my puss on the wall
it’d be called brilliant modern art
abrasions forming all around me
sometimes I feel that
grease is so damn cheap
and this unrequited beauty
is going to get me killed
and if you’re pretty on the inside
who needs a reason to be beautiful?
who needs an army of anorexic magazines
to tell you they’re too good for you
you can scrub and scrub but I will never fade away
so don’t rub me
and don’t pick on me
just leave me alone to fester at will
and I will not be sanitized
and I will not go without a fight
I will not be covered up
I will not back my bags and hide
I’m not greasy I’m not a slime-ball like you
I’m not fronting and I’m not coming to a head
and I’m not coming for you
cos I’m not a zit, damnit, I’m an inner beauty mark
(and if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to show you)
September 27, 2004
Oh, have you ever escaped from a shipwrecked life?
Within the next few days, there may or may not be a chance that I'll be meeting up with a fellow blogger who'll be in town on business. True story: I don't actually enjoy meeting bloggers in real life, yet I jump and leap and prance like a fey boy at the opportunity.
I've already waxed poetical about meeting bloggers in real life for QR Magazine, so if you want to read that, you should pester the editors and have them release the damn thing already.
So, instead of whiny introspective blog post about meeting bloggers, I'm just going to post a Morrissey song, and since nobody complained the last time I posted, I'm going to assume I'm doing this right. I mean, when it comes down to it, I'd much rather rock out to Morrissey rather than read my blog anytime.
Reader, Meet Author
(right click, save as, etc)
edit: You missed the download.
I've already waxed poetical about meeting bloggers in real life for QR Magazine, so if you want to read that, you should pester the editors and have them release the damn thing already.
So, instead of whiny introspective blog post about meeting bloggers, I'm just going to post a Morrissey song, and since nobody complained the last time I posted, I'm going to assume I'm doing this right. I mean, when it comes down to it, I'd much rather rock out to Morrissey rather than read my blog anytime.
Reader, Meet Author
(right click, save as, etc)
edit: You missed the download.
September 24, 2004
September 22, 2004
Making it easy for my stalkers
This is the view from the balcony--the dorm's about two blocks away from the capital. It looks even better at night, but for some reason the pictures I took last night didn't really turn out. At night, the dome is all lit up and you can't see that god-ugly building in the way. It's much better.
September 21, 2004
Feelings.
There's nothing that I enjoy more than mocking other people's art. Yes, it makes me shallow, elitist, unattractive and hypocritical, and no, I don't care.
I went to a charter arts high school, and my English teacher was the state poet laureate, which meant that I had to sit in class and listen to some god-awful poetry about fitting in and acceptance. I loudly and repeatedly vowed that poetry was the worst thing to happen to the world and that I never wanted anything to do with bad poetry ever again.
(The hypocrisy can be found here, here, here, here and here, plus a few more in the archives if you feel like searching.)
My friend Mel and I were the only decent poets in that class. Even as self-depreciating as I am, I don't feel bad in writing that sentence, just by the sheer crappiness of the poems. I mean, they were bad. Forced rhymes and impossible meter, even just thinking about it makes me shudder. It was painful to sit through these classes.
Of course, this long introduction would be irrelevant if I hadn't gone through some of my old notebooks and found a poem that Mel and I wrote making fun of everyone in our class. We kept notes in the class of the most stupid lines we heard, just for this reason. Some of the lines (like the last one) are direct quotes from poems some of our classmates wrote. You'd be surprised at how hard it was to write this terribly. Unfortunately, we didn't have the balls at the time to read it in front of the class. But damn, were cool.
I went to a charter arts high school, and my English teacher was the state poet laureate, which meant that I had to sit in class and listen to some god-awful poetry about fitting in and acceptance. I loudly and repeatedly vowed that poetry was the worst thing to happen to the world and that I never wanted anything to do with bad poetry ever again.
(The hypocrisy can be found here, here, here, here and here, plus a few more in the archives if you feel like searching.)
My friend Mel and I were the only decent poets in that class. Even as self-depreciating as I am, I don't feel bad in writing that sentence, just by the sheer crappiness of the poems. I mean, they were bad. Forced rhymes and impossible meter, even just thinking about it makes me shudder. It was painful to sit through these classes.
Of course, this long introduction would be irrelevant if I hadn't gone through some of my old notebooks and found a poem that Mel and I wrote making fun of everyone in our class. We kept notes in the class of the most stupid lines we heard, just for this reason. Some of the lines (like the last one) are direct quotes from poems some of our classmates wrote. You'd be surprised at how hard it was to write this terribly. Unfortunately, we didn't have the balls at the time to read it in front of the class. But damn, were cool.
feelings
i think it's because i'm gay
that i feel so alone
or maybe it's because my dad beats me
when i'm on the telephone
or maybe cause i like to cut myself
to make the pain go away
or maybe cause i dress different
and get beat up every day
i wish i was marilyn manson
no one ever picks on him
his music speaks to my soul
i don't think that what he does is a sin
his words paint a pretty picture
of my deepest, dark despair
i believe every word he utters
onstage or ascending the stair
he has such pretty eyes
and he's smarter than Einstein
i wish i could dress the same
i wish his words were mine
i sit in class and stare at him
his curls fall from his ears
he doesn't know my life is dim
as i've loved him alone for ears
my self-worth is nothing
but the safety pin puncture in my left nostril
nothing will be as fucking painful
as this goddamn motherfucking poopface bitch cost will.
September 20, 2004
Here's hoping this works...
I went and saw Outfoxed last night, and was sort of banking on the anger towards everyone and everything related to the FOX News Network to supply today's post. Unfortunately, the movie didn't really do much for me. I probably could have made a similar documentary using Flash, a VCR, and a masochistic desire to watch a lot of Bill O'Reilly. Eh.
Fortunately, the Emmys were on when I got back, and I got to see the divine Allison Janney look pretty damn good in a little green number.
And every time Angels In America won an award, I grew a little bit more giddy and proud. It made me almost want to prance down the hallways in hotpants, singing my little song:
I'm a cocksucking faggot, a flaming faggot
A fuck buddy, fruitcake-cum-supernelly homo
Uncle Walt, Auntie Mame, little sissy pansy
Fudge-packing butt pirate, drag queen, hairdresser
Interior decorator, pervert, pornographer
Sodomite, sex fiend, mincing, limpy-wrist
Scat-nosed poof prince, a resident of Castro
And President of the United States of Love
Said President of the United States of Love
Fortunately, the Emmys were on when I got back, and I got to see the divine Allison Janney look pretty damn good in a little green number.
And every time Angels In America won an award, I grew a little bit more giddy and proud. It made me almost want to prance down the hallways in hotpants, singing my little song:
I'm a cocksucking faggot, a flaming faggot
A fuck buddy, fruitcake-cum-supernelly homo
Uncle Walt, Auntie Mame, little sissy pansy
Fudge-packing butt pirate, drag queen, hairdresser
Interior decorator, pervert, pornographer
Sodomite, sex fiend, mincing, limpy-wrist
Scat-nosed poof prince, a resident of Castro
And President of the United States of Love
Said President of the United States of Love
September 18, 2004
Dance! Too much booty in my pants!
Last night, the roommate (Matt, of the HRC sticker fame), one of the suitemates (Andy) and I went to the big gay dance on campus. I didn't want to go alone, and since Matt is confident of his sexuality he came along because he's a nice guy like that, and Andy just tagged along to feel included.
I was kind of miffed when we got there, as Matt was cruised before I was. Unacceptable. Even if the guy was pretty ugly. At first glance I thought Matt was being hit on by a lesbian, which shows how ugly the guy was.
But I soon grew out of it, as this cute-as-a-button little freshman was ostentatiously fawning over me. He had a whole bunch of girls in a semi-circle around him, poking at him and prodding for him to talk to me. It was adorable and did wonders for my self-esteem. I started dancing with him, even though he wasn't very good at it. We talked, or at least did our best imitation above the bad dance remixes.
My roommates ended up leaving after an hour or so, since there weren't as many straight girls there as we would have thought (though by the time the night ended, they were swarming all over). They left me alone with the little freshman (he was 5'8", and I'm close to 6'2"), and slowly but surely the gaggle of girls we were dancing with slipped off to the bathroom or to get a drink, leaving us to dance alone. I had a lot of fun, except that after a while he saw his friends walking out the door, and then he quickly said something about how he forgot the key to his dorm and so he had to leave with them. He did have a lot of fun dancing with me (of course) but he left so fast he didn't have time to ask me for my number. Bastard.
Since I don't know any gay people on campus, and the dancing was very much in groups, I kind of wandered around for a bit, trying my best not to look completely out of place. I danced with a few guys who were a few notches below me on the attractiveness scale, mostly because I'm a nice guy and I was failing at fitting in. (They asked, and even though they probably wouldn't have turned my head otherwise, it was nice to be sought out--if anything, it was pity for wallflower me.)
Eventually I found a few girls with whom I went to camp about five years ago and clung to them for dear life.
I totally saw some guy give another guy a handjob on the dancefloor, and there were quite a few guys making out. Lots of shirtless grinding, which was kind of hot. No ecstasy, as far as I could tell, but there were a few communal joints passed around the room, which was risky due to the 6 cops at the dance. Of course, being a college event there was more than the fair share of drunks, but not many who were completely out of it. Probably no more drunks than at a gay dance not sponsored by the school.
So that was my night. No phone numbers, no swapped spit, nothing. Kind of weak, even though I guess on the whole I had fun.
I was kind of miffed when we got there, as Matt was cruised before I was. Unacceptable. Even if the guy was pretty ugly. At first glance I thought Matt was being hit on by a lesbian, which shows how ugly the guy was.
But I soon grew out of it, as this cute-as-a-button little freshman was ostentatiously fawning over me. He had a whole bunch of girls in a semi-circle around him, poking at him and prodding for him to talk to me. It was adorable and did wonders for my self-esteem. I started dancing with him, even though he wasn't very good at it. We talked, or at least did our best imitation above the bad dance remixes.
My roommates ended up leaving after an hour or so, since there weren't as many straight girls there as we would have thought (though by the time the night ended, they were swarming all over). They left me alone with the little freshman (he was 5'8", and I'm close to 6'2"), and slowly but surely the gaggle of girls we were dancing with slipped off to the bathroom or to get a drink, leaving us to dance alone. I had a lot of fun, except that after a while he saw his friends walking out the door, and then he quickly said something about how he forgot the key to his dorm and so he had to leave with them. He did have a lot of fun dancing with me (of course) but he left so fast he didn't have time to ask me for my number. Bastard.
Since I don't know any gay people on campus, and the dancing was very much in groups, I kind of wandered around for a bit, trying my best not to look completely out of place. I danced with a few guys who were a few notches below me on the attractiveness scale, mostly because I'm a nice guy and I was failing at fitting in. (They asked, and even though they probably wouldn't have turned my head otherwise, it was nice to be sought out--if anything, it was pity for wallflower me.)
Eventually I found a few girls with whom I went to camp about five years ago and clung to them for dear life.
I totally saw some guy give another guy a handjob on the dancefloor, and there were quite a few guys making out. Lots of shirtless grinding, which was kind of hot. No ecstasy, as far as I could tell, but there were a few communal joints passed around the room, which was risky due to the 6 cops at the dance. Of course, being a college event there was more than the fair share of drunks, but not many who were completely out of it. Probably no more drunks than at a gay dance not sponsored by the school.
So that was my night. No phone numbers, no swapped spit, nothing. Kind of weak, even though I guess on the whole I had fun.
September 16, 2004
Nader-Bashing
Everyone's favorite election-ruining megalomaniac, Nader, came to speak on campus a few days ago, and, being semi-politically aware students in search for free food (or at the very least a totebag), the roommate and I made our way to the Union.
I still have no idea what Nader is for or against. He didn't really speak about his ideas, but rather spent an hour just critizing Bush and Kerry. If volunteers hadn't passed out brochures, I wouldn't even have been able to name Nader's running mate.
Speaking of passing, they passed a basket for donations, which was bad enough, until the chief of staff came and pretending to be a Baptist preacher, flailing his arms about and hollering for money.
"Don't worry kids. A thousand dollars isn't all that much--you can put it on a credit card and then it's like you won't even have to pay for it!"
And speaking of passing out, it was probably a bad idea to have the three guys introducing Nader wear tshirts, shorts, and sandals. One guy went barefoot. All three had obviously glazed eyes and spoke a bit slower than usual, with various amounts of "um..." "yeah" and "like". Another guy had problems walking to the podium, and clung a little tightly to the sides. It was kind of amusing, except that they were trying to convince us to elect the leader of the free world. The dorks.
And speaking of dorks, apparently Nader's people haven't been too nice to the Green Party lately, working hard to keep the Green Party off of state ballots by causing problems with signatures. It was pretty amusing when someone yelled at Nader during the Q&A, and watching Nader talk his way out of it like a great politician.
Don't worry--Nader may be a fine speaker, but he sure didn't say much of substance. I'll be seeing Feingold and (Cate) Edwards tomorrow afternoon, and, barring giant robots scrambling my brains, I'll be voting for them.
I still have no idea what Nader is for or against. He didn't really speak about his ideas, but rather spent an hour just critizing Bush and Kerry. If volunteers hadn't passed out brochures, I wouldn't even have been able to name Nader's running mate.
Speaking of passing, they passed a basket for donations, which was bad enough, until the chief of staff came and pretending to be a Baptist preacher, flailing his arms about and hollering for money.
"Don't worry kids. A thousand dollars isn't all that much--you can put it on a credit card and then it's like you won't even have to pay for it!"
And speaking of passing out, it was probably a bad idea to have the three guys introducing Nader wear tshirts, shorts, and sandals. One guy went barefoot. All three had obviously glazed eyes and spoke a bit slower than usual, with various amounts of "um..." "yeah" and "like". Another guy had problems walking to the podium, and clung a little tightly to the sides. It was kind of amusing, except that they were trying to convince us to elect the leader of the free world. The dorks.
And speaking of dorks, apparently Nader's people haven't been too nice to the Green Party lately, working hard to keep the Green Party off of state ballots by causing problems with signatures. It was pretty amusing when someone yelled at Nader during the Q&A, and watching Nader talk his way out of it like a great politician.
Don't worry--Nader may be a fine speaker, but he sure didn't say much of substance. I'll be seeing Feingold and (Cate) Edwards tomorrow afternoon, and, barring giant robots scrambling my brains, I'll be voting for them.
September 15, 2004
I feel so unloved.
Out of the thirtysome gay or gay-friendly student organizations on campus, I am not qualified for any of them.
Oh, if only I were a gay Republican person of color who was a pre-law student looking to ensure a woman's right to choose, or if I were a transgendered and of Hispanic heritage pre-med student living in the dorms who wanted to intern for local politicians, or an HIV+ daughter of lesbian parents who was interesting in getting her doctoral degree while handing out condoms in bars, or a bisexual Socialist Jew looking for telecommunication experience before she comes out to her family. Maybe then I could be popular.
Sure, I signed my name and email address for a weekly digest of upcoming events, but I mean, come on: WEAK.
P.S. I am not exaggerating. And yes, it is kind of funny, if you forget about the first few paragraphs here.
Oh, if only I were a gay Republican person of color who was a pre-law student looking to ensure a woman's right to choose, or if I were a transgendered and of Hispanic heritage pre-med student living in the dorms who wanted to intern for local politicians, or an HIV+ daughter of lesbian parents who was interesting in getting her doctoral degree while handing out condoms in bars, or a bisexual Socialist Jew looking for telecommunication experience before she comes out to her family. Maybe then I could be popular.
Sure, I signed my name and email address for a weekly digest of upcoming events, but I mean, come on: WEAK.
P.S. I am not exaggerating. And yes, it is kind of funny, if you forget about the first few paragraphs here.
September 14, 2004
A mea culpa of sorts.
Like all good college students, my first few weeks of classes were filled with getting drunk every night, having one night stands, gorging myself on free food, experimenting with drugs, letting my hygiene slip, skipping my classes, seducing my TAs, and getting sick.
Oh, how I jest.
I have been sick, actually. Something about the abundance of people from all over the world in small enclosures (not to mention the passive orgies until the wee hours of the night) leads to the proliferation of germs--who knew? My roommate and one of my suitemates were already sick, and so this weekend was my turn.
I got sick Friday night, which was the suck, of course. I stayed in bed, watched tv, blew florescent colors out of my nose, coughed like a bad Oliver Twist extra, and sounded like a muppet version of Bob Dylan. It was not a pretty sight.
I watched "Angels in America," which was repeated on HBO Friday. While I enjoyed the minidrama, I think I would have enjoyed it more cuddling up with someone. Of course, I tend to think that everything is more enjoyable cuddling with some hot young thing, but in this case it would have been nice to have seen on a date. There's just something about uplifting gay-centric serious movies that cause giddy snugglebunnies. Or something butch like that.
Watching the movie while sick probably wasn't a good idea, since for the rest of the weekend I fretted about how swollen my glands were. They were huge! And even though I'm pretty sure there's nothing to worry about, it still added a bit of paranoia which, coupled with my sore throat, stuffed nose, et all, resulted in a weekend unworthy of a Monday recap blog post.
And that's why I didn't post yesterday.
Oh, how I jest.
I have been sick, actually. Something about the abundance of people from all over the world in small enclosures (not to mention the passive orgies until the wee hours of the night) leads to the proliferation of germs--who knew? My roommate and one of my suitemates were already sick, and so this weekend was my turn.
I got sick Friday night, which was the suck, of course. I stayed in bed, watched tv, blew florescent colors out of my nose, coughed like a bad Oliver Twist extra, and sounded like a muppet version of Bob Dylan. It was not a pretty sight.
I watched "Angels in America," which was repeated on HBO Friday. While I enjoyed the minidrama, I think I would have enjoyed it more cuddling up with someone. Of course, I tend to think that everything is more enjoyable cuddling with some hot young thing, but in this case it would have been nice to have seen on a date. There's just something about uplifting gay-centric serious movies that cause giddy snugglebunnies. Or something butch like that.
Watching the movie while sick probably wasn't a good idea, since for the rest of the weekend I fretted about how swollen my glands were. They were huge! And even though I'm pretty sure there's nothing to worry about, it still added a bit of paranoia which, coupled with my sore throat, stuffed nose, et all, resulted in a weekend unworthy of a Monday recap blog post.
And that's why I didn't post yesterday.
September 10, 2004
Heart, meet sleeve.
I'm sick of being the oddball. Of the one hundred thirty some people in my dorm, I'm the only out person. Of the 40,000 undergrads attending this school, I've only met one out bisexual, and she doesn't count because we went to high school together. Even the girls manning the GSA table at the Organization fair were obviously fag hags (for lack of a better term).
Don't get me wrong; I've never had this many friends, straight or gay, in my life. It would just be nice not to be the Bruce Vilanch of the group. It would be nice for people to realize that my sexuality is more than just a few quips. It would be nice for the guys I'm rooming with to feel comfortable changing their shirts while I'm in the room instead of going into the bathroom.
My sexuality dictates a lot more of who I am than I would ever admit.
I don't know why, but I feel like I'm in blackface half the time--they can set up the joke, I'll supply a punchline that's expected (usually there are more than a few people willing to offer my services to "kiss it and make feel better" or something similar). For a few people it feels like they'll now have something to say when they vote against gay marriage: "Oh, I've nothing wrong with those types of people, I was friends with one in college even, it's just that...."
This hasn't been a new thing, so maybe it's me. I've said similar sentiments before, as I'll show later in the post. I've never had too many friends, and the ones I do have tend to be bisexual girls who conveniently have dated boys regularly, though they are more than willing to make a comment about Angelina Jolie if the timing seems right. I don't remember the last time I had a friend--and I'm talking in real life, not internet--who was gay.
Sure, my roommate last year was gay, but we were roommates and not really friends, and I mostly just tagged along like a sycophantic kid brother. In high school, I had acquaintances who were guys, and the guys my friends dated tended to get along with me, but no one who would hang out with me after school.
You could say that that's one of the reasons why I'm so ingrained in the gay ghetto of the blogging world, that I'm searching for gay male camaraderie that I'm lacking in my real life. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that, but I could see someone's point if they said that about me.
In fact, I think the last gay friend I had was my ex.
For those of you too lazy to read the archives, I'm still kind of/sort of not over him, even though it's been about ten months. I don't really know. We broke up via AIM (not my choice), and each sent an email or two as a postmortem, since it's doubtful that he'll ever see me again. Fortunately, I still have the emails, both the ones he sent, and the ones I sent.
It's his birthday tomorrow. For those of you who've been paying attention, I was born on the day when the bombs dropped on Hiroshima, and he was born on the day the planes crashed into the towers. Maybe we were doomed from the start.
I don't know what the proper protocol is for this sort of thing. I still wear his ring, and I still have all the emails, letters, and gifts he's sent. I don't have his new email or telephone number, and I haven't seen him on AIM since January, which makes it his responsibility to make contact.
For my birthday, he (or someone pretending to be him) left a comment, which was the first time that he made contact in over six months. He didn't leave an email address nor a blog of his own, so I can't respond in kind.
So, if you're still reading this, Happy Birthday, punk.
Don't get me wrong; I've never had this many friends, straight or gay, in my life. It would just be nice not to be the Bruce Vilanch of the group. It would be nice for people to realize that my sexuality is more than just a few quips. It would be nice for the guys I'm rooming with to feel comfortable changing their shirts while I'm in the room instead of going into the bathroom.
My sexuality dictates a lot more of who I am than I would ever admit.
I don't know why, but I feel like I'm in blackface half the time--they can set up the joke, I'll supply a punchline that's expected (usually there are more than a few people willing to offer my services to "kiss it and make feel better" or something similar). For a few people it feels like they'll now have something to say when they vote against gay marriage: "Oh, I've nothing wrong with those types of people, I was friends with one in college even, it's just that...."
This hasn't been a new thing, so maybe it's me. I've said similar sentiments before, as I'll show later in the post. I've never had too many friends, and the ones I do have tend to be bisexual girls who conveniently have dated boys regularly, though they are more than willing to make a comment about Angelina Jolie if the timing seems right. I don't remember the last time I had a friend--and I'm talking in real life, not internet--who was gay.
Sure, my roommate last year was gay, but we were roommates and not really friends, and I mostly just tagged along like a sycophantic kid brother. In high school, I had acquaintances who were guys, and the guys my friends dated tended to get along with me, but no one who would hang out with me after school.
You could say that that's one of the reasons why I'm so ingrained in the gay ghetto of the blogging world, that I'm searching for gay male camaraderie that I'm lacking in my real life. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that, but I could see someone's point if they said that about me.
In fact, I think the last gay friend I had was my ex.
For those of you too lazy to read the archives, I'm still kind of/sort of not over him, even though it's been about ten months. I don't really know. We broke up via AIM (not my choice), and each sent an email or two as a postmortem, since it's doubtful that he'll ever see me again. Fortunately, I still have the emails, both the ones he sent, and the ones I sent.
I must thank you not only for being my first boyfriend, but for being my first boy friend as well. Not to delve too deeply into the semantics of the previous sentence, but you were the first person of our gender whom I could consider a friend since sixth grade, if not before. Ever since then, subconsciously I'm assuming, I have failed to procure any friends of my own gender, and even though I fraternized (or sororisized?) mostly with girls before sixth grade, my middle school and high school years are filled to the brim with female friends, from XXX to XXX, XXX to XXX, and similarly minded girls in-between. To be sure, I had male acquaintances, guys with whom I could have a good time occasionally, but these guys were never the kind to call me on the spur of the moment and see a movie or go thrifting. It is for this relationship, the platonic one I forged with you before our relationship, or rather, that we forged together this summer that I thank you first and foremost.
It's his birthday tomorrow. For those of you who've been paying attention, I was born on the day when the bombs dropped on Hiroshima, and he was born on the day the planes crashed into the towers. Maybe we were doomed from the start.
I don't know what the proper protocol is for this sort of thing. I still wear his ring, and I still have all the emails, letters, and gifts he's sent. I don't have his new email or telephone number, and I haven't seen him on AIM since January, which makes it his responsibility to make contact.
For my birthday, he (or someone pretending to be him) left a comment, which was the first time that he made contact in over six months. He didn't leave an email address nor a blog of his own, so I can't respond in kind.
So, if you're still reading this, Happy Birthday, punk.
September 9, 2004
Roommate bio thingee, part two.
I found a story about my roommate to show what a great guy he is, even though as I type it, it doesn't seem to be as big of a deal as previously thought.
Despite the fact that I moved in last Tuesday, I still have more than my fair share of stuff in boxes. There just isn't enough room for all of my clothing, let alone notebooks, cd spindles, shoes, and throw pillows.
I've been going slowly but surely through the remaining boxes, organizing and reorganizing drawers and hanging hooks for all of my stuff.
Last year, for Day of Silence, the GSA gave out shitloads of HRC stickers, and I still have a pile of twenty or so. They were sitting on my desk, about to be placed in a spare manilla folder in which I keep odd gay paraphenelia like that, when my roommate returned from class.
He threw his bookback against the wall, and some of the stickers floated to the carpeting like the leaves outside our window. He picked one up, and inquired as to what the stickers were. I replied with something indecisive and coy, along the lines of "Oh, it's the HRC. For equal rights and stuff like that."
"Oh." He flipped over the sticker and read the blurb printed on the back.
"I'm going to put this on the door so that everyone knows we're all pro about you--is that okay?"
It was more than okay.
Despite the fact that I moved in last Tuesday, I still have more than my fair share of stuff in boxes. There just isn't enough room for all of my clothing, let alone notebooks, cd spindles, shoes, and throw pillows.
I've been going slowly but surely through the remaining boxes, organizing and reorganizing drawers and hanging hooks for all of my stuff.
Last year, for Day of Silence, the GSA gave out shitloads of HRC stickers, and I still have a pile of twenty or so. They were sitting on my desk, about to be placed in a spare manilla folder in which I keep odd gay paraphenelia like that, when my roommate returned from class.
He threw his bookback against the wall, and some of the stickers floated to the carpeting like the leaves outside our window. He picked one up, and inquired as to what the stickers were. I replied with something indecisive and coy, along the lines of "Oh, it's the HRC. For equal rights and stuff like that."
"Oh." He flipped over the sticker and read the blurb printed on the back.
The HUMAN RIGHTS CAMPAIGN envisions an America where gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people are ensured of their basic equal rights.
By placing this sticker where others can see it, you can help to spread the message of equality for all.
"I'm going to put this on the door so that everyone knows we're all pro about you--is that okay?"
It was more than okay.
September 8, 2004
Hey Ladies!
There are a lot of really attractive girls on campus. Like, fifties-movie star stunning. It's really amazing.
Yesterday, I saw a woman on a vespa, wearing high heels, a short black skirt, a white shirt with a black rose on the lapel, and a scarf. Her hair was under a scarf, and she had huge sunglasses. It was almost like she was trying to become every gay icon ever. My jaw dropped.
Don't worry fellows, I'm not switching over to the dark side. I still have an eye on the guys, but I haven't had to turn my head or gawk as often as I would have liked. I haven't left a flood of drool as I've walked, and I haven't had difficulty paying attention in class because the guy across the aisle had really nice legs or anything. Not that that's happened in the past. Nope.
That being said, most of the guys are of the slightly good looking generic frat boy classification, and I wouldn't mind seeing most of them naked with a baseball cap covering half their face on Dudes Off Campus. I wouldn't mind that at all.
But not many worthy of paid subscription.
(And yes, my name is Pot, and I have just called the kettle black.)
Yesterday, I saw a woman on a vespa, wearing high heels, a short black skirt, a white shirt with a black rose on the lapel, and a scarf. Her hair was under a scarf, and she had huge sunglasses. It was almost like she was trying to become every gay icon ever. My jaw dropped.
Don't worry fellows, I'm not switching over to the dark side. I still have an eye on the guys, but I haven't had to turn my head or gawk as often as I would have liked. I haven't left a flood of drool as I've walked, and I haven't had difficulty paying attention in class because the guy across the aisle had really nice legs or anything. Not that that's happened in the past. Nope.
That being said, most of the guys are of the slightly good looking generic frat boy classification, and I wouldn't mind seeing most of them naked with a baseball cap covering half their face on Dudes Off Campus. I wouldn't mind that at all.
But not many worthy of paid subscription.
(And yes, my name is Pot, and I have just called the kettle black.)
September 7, 2004
Our cable is the suck.
How the hell am I supposed to be able to call myself a radical homosexual imposing my agenda upon the sweet and innocent youth of our nation without Bravo telling me what to wear, think, sit, watch, eat, cook, and breathe?
Also, how am I supposed to cultivate my crush on the lovely Allison Janney if I can't watch the 4 daily reruns of West Wing?
Excuse me, but I think I have to go make out with a girl now.
Also, how am I supposed to cultivate my crush on the lovely Allison Janney if I can't watch the 4 daily reruns of West Wing?
Excuse me, but I think I have to go make out with a girl now.
I'll show you a Renaissance...
The night before I moved to college, I had a dream, and, like Martin Luther King, it didn't end well.
I'm embarrassed to say that in my dream I was blogging. That's so sad.
I was posting a picture of myself with a bloody lip, a black eye, a tooth or two knocked out, a scar on my cheek, and spit on my face. The title was "My Roommate Doesn't Like Fags." End of post.
So you can imagine my angst on the three hour drive down.
Fret not, readers, as dreams do not always come true as the lack of Jake Gyllenhaal between my sheets suggests.
My roommates are lovely. My actual roommate, herein known as Matt, is a beautiful person and I love him. Not in the Nifty Erotic Story archive sort of way, where he gets dumped by his girlfriend, we get drunk, and fool around, and then afterwards he confesses that he's loved me from the first time we met, but in that he's a great person. He's far too photogenic though. I don't know what else to say about him. He's great. I'll try and think of an example for another post.
One of my suitemates (who will be called Andy), I don't know too much about. He lives about twenty minutes away, and so he runs home occasionally for errands and stuff. He goes on bike rides a lot, and our classes are such so that we don't see each other very often, but he seems nice anyway. He has a tattoo on his chest of the evil monkey from Family Guy. He's the one most likely to get drunk or find some pot, but as of this post he hasn't gone overboard to the point where I resent his existence.
The last suitemate, known as Rich, is the most flamboyant closeted gay guy I know. He's a neurotic gay Jew from Manhattan with OCD, and you would think that we would get along well since some of my favorite bloggers are neurotic gay Jews from Manhattan with OCD, but it's not the case. He's so blatantly gay, but trying so hard to be in the closet it's almost amusing. Note the use of the word "almost." Everyone on our floor has a little bet going; we think he'll be out of the closet by Christmas. He's from the Upper East Side, which he will remind you of on a regular basis, and consequently loaded, which is nice.
I actually moved in a few days later than the other guys since I didn't go to Freshman week, and I missed out on some stories. They all went shopping for groceries, and it was Rich's first visit to a grocery store ever. He's always had someone to do his shopping for him. He walked around the store, shouting things like "Holy Shit! How do people eat this many pears?" "No wonder America's so fat--look at how big this jar of mayo is!" and "What the Fuck? Look at how many cans of soup there are! Do all grocery stores have this many cans of soup? This is insane!"
I have a feeling that there will be a lot of stories about Rich, if I can stand to hang around him enough. Fortunately, he's had a cold the past day or two and has been subdued.
The way the rooms are set up is that there are two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchenette/dining room. Somehow, I ended up in the room with the smaller closet, which was irritating but fine---until I visited our neighbors across the hall and found that a straight guy has a walk-in closet. I've been bitching about that all week. He has his own room, and he has a walk-in closet. Not fair.
I really like my dorm. There are only 120-some students, and most seem to have been on their own before, so there aren't a lot of kids getting drunk for the first time staggering through the hallways. We have a rooftop balcony, with a great view of the capital. The dorm is about two blocks from Frat Row, and so far there hasn't been any problems *knock on wood*.
I think that's about it. If you have questions, let me know, but I'm pleased about my dorm, which is much better than Freshman year at this time. I might tell you all that story later, but it's a bit too depressing for this post.
I'm embarrassed to say that in my dream I was blogging. That's so sad.
I was posting a picture of myself with a bloody lip, a black eye, a tooth or two knocked out, a scar on my cheek, and spit on my face. The title was "My Roommate Doesn't Like Fags." End of post.
So you can imagine my angst on the three hour drive down.
Fret not, readers, as dreams do not always come true as the lack of Jake Gyllenhaal between my sheets suggests.
My roommates are lovely. My actual roommate, herein known as Matt, is a beautiful person and I love him. Not in the Nifty Erotic Story archive sort of way, where he gets dumped by his girlfriend, we get drunk, and fool around, and then afterwards he confesses that he's loved me from the first time we met, but in that he's a great person. He's far too photogenic though. I don't know what else to say about him. He's great. I'll try and think of an example for another post.
One of my suitemates (who will be called Andy), I don't know too much about. He lives about twenty minutes away, and so he runs home occasionally for errands and stuff. He goes on bike rides a lot, and our classes are such so that we don't see each other very often, but he seems nice anyway. He has a tattoo on his chest of the evil monkey from Family Guy. He's the one most likely to get drunk or find some pot, but as of this post he hasn't gone overboard to the point where I resent his existence.
The last suitemate, known as Rich, is the most flamboyant closeted gay guy I know. He's a neurotic gay Jew from Manhattan with OCD, and you would think that we would get along well since some of my favorite bloggers are neurotic gay Jews from Manhattan with OCD, but it's not the case. He's so blatantly gay, but trying so hard to be in the closet it's almost amusing. Note the use of the word "almost." Everyone on our floor has a little bet going; we think he'll be out of the closet by Christmas. He's from the Upper East Side, which he will remind you of on a regular basis, and consequently loaded, which is nice.
I actually moved in a few days later than the other guys since I didn't go to Freshman week, and I missed out on some stories. They all went shopping for groceries, and it was Rich's first visit to a grocery store ever. He's always had someone to do his shopping for him. He walked around the store, shouting things like "Holy Shit! How do people eat this many pears?" "No wonder America's so fat--look at how big this jar of mayo is!" and "What the Fuck? Look at how many cans of soup there are! Do all grocery stores have this many cans of soup? This is insane!"
I have a feeling that there will be a lot of stories about Rich, if I can stand to hang around him enough. Fortunately, he's had a cold the past day or two and has been subdued.
The way the rooms are set up is that there are two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchenette/dining room. Somehow, I ended up in the room with the smaller closet, which was irritating but fine---until I visited our neighbors across the hall and found that a straight guy has a walk-in closet. I've been bitching about that all week. He has his own room, and he has a walk-in closet. Not fair.
I really like my dorm. There are only 120-some students, and most seem to have been on their own before, so there aren't a lot of kids getting drunk for the first time staggering through the hallways. We have a rooftop balcony, with a great view of the capital. The dorm is about two blocks from Frat Row, and so far there hasn't been any problems *knock on wood*.
I think that's about it. If you have questions, let me know, but I'm pleased about my dorm, which is much better than Freshman year at this time. I might tell you all that story later, but it's a bit too depressing for this post.
September 2, 2004
Again, this is not an actual post.
Actual posting will resume once I've milked this sabbatical thing for all it is worth. However, I have a few minutes while the roommate is smoking up on the roof, so I figured I had better blog about the convention before it gets old.
Bush's speech didn't actually mean anything, of course. It was nice to be in a room full of guys (well, five or six, but for a dorm room that's cramped) who were big and burly and who hated Bush. Of course, it makes me sound like a huge pervert typing that, but that isn't the case. I haven't had a wad off at the wrist since I moved in, but I'm surprisingly ok with that. And by ok, I mean I could have taken this time to blow my stack, but instead I chose to blog. Usually my priorities aren't the same. Aren't you all lucky.
Convention. Of course. That's what I'm talking about. The guys and I, who aren't as politically knowledgable as we like to think we are but we like to pretend, came up with a few drinking games. And, by drinking games, I mean we pretty much said "Oh man, this would make a great drinking game." Two of them had a can of beer, but that was it.
Speaking of alcohol, I drank a little bit my first night here and didn't turn into a blubbering mess. I'm so cool.
There are only a few games that come to mind. The first one was to take a shot after the following words: freedom, democracy, safety, courage, firefighters, Iraq, etc. I'm sure you all know the words about which I'm talking.
The second game was to take a shot whenever the camera had a close-up of a minority. There were a few times, particularly early on, where all the close-ups would be of a minorities, and the big crowd shots were all a sea of chubby white men and women with ugly haircuts.
Oh--this isn't really a drinking game, but it was amusing nevertheless. When the cameras showed Barbara Bush, did anyone else feel as though Austin Powers should run into the balcony and scream "It's a man, baby, yeah" and tug at her face? The guys and I all thought so.
According to my stats, I'm a more popular person when I'm taking a break, so I should keep this brief, and so I'll wrap this up. Besides, Friday's classes are the suck. I have class from 9:50 to 2:10, with only fifteen minutes between classes, and I don't think there's a cafeteria anywhere nearby. Ugh. Bed.
Bush's speech didn't actually mean anything, of course. It was nice to be in a room full of guys (well, five or six, but for a dorm room that's cramped) who were big and burly and who hated Bush. Of course, it makes me sound like a huge pervert typing that, but that isn't the case. I haven't had a wad off at the wrist since I moved in, but I'm surprisingly ok with that. And by ok, I mean I could have taken this time to blow my stack, but instead I chose to blog. Usually my priorities aren't the same. Aren't you all lucky.
Convention. Of course. That's what I'm talking about. The guys and I, who aren't as politically knowledgable as we like to think we are but we like to pretend, came up with a few drinking games. And, by drinking games, I mean we pretty much said "Oh man, this would make a great drinking game." Two of them had a can of beer, but that was it.
Speaking of alcohol, I drank a little bit my first night here and didn't turn into a blubbering mess. I'm so cool.
There are only a few games that come to mind. The first one was to take a shot after the following words: freedom, democracy, safety, courage, firefighters, Iraq, etc. I'm sure you all know the words about which I'm talking.
The second game was to take a shot whenever the camera had a close-up of a minority. There were a few times, particularly early on, where all the close-ups would be of a minorities, and the big crowd shots were all a sea of chubby white men and women with ugly haircuts.
Oh--this isn't really a drinking game, but it was amusing nevertheless. When the cameras showed Barbara Bush, did anyone else feel as though Austin Powers should run into the balcony and scream "It's a man, baby, yeah" and tug at her face? The guys and I all thought so.
According to my stats, I'm a more popular person when I'm taking a break, so I should keep this brief, and so I'll wrap this up. Besides, Friday's classes are the suck. I have class from 9:50 to 2:10, with only fifteen minutes between classes, and I don't think there's a cafeteria anywhere nearby. Ugh. Bed.
Not a real update.
Apparently, my computer is under the assumption that it needs to connect to the network at 10 bps. Not 10k, which would be less than half of dial-up, but 10. Diez. Hopefully the internet man will come tomorrow and make everything all better. My roommate's very pretty laptop does not have this problem.
Speaking of which, I am on my roommate's laptop and can't really give an update. The computer lab in the dorm basement is having problems with its lock, and I haven't quite managed my way around to find an available lab.
I'm not dead, don't worry. According to my stats, I had a lot more visitors these past few days than I usually did, so maybe I'll just continue this sabbatical until I get a few more thousand hits. That's what it all boils down to anyways.
Speaking of which, I am on my roommate's laptop and can't really give an update. The computer lab in the dorm basement is having problems with its lock, and I haven't quite managed my way around to find an available lab.
I'm not dead, don't worry. According to my stats, I had a lot more visitors these past few days than I usually did, so maybe I'll just continue this sabbatical until I get a few more thousand hits. That's what it all boils down to anyways.
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