It's fun to use learning for evil!

So the Cutie-sans-acronym have been spending a lot of time together lately. This is mostly my doing, but he doesn't seem to mind me clinging to him like some sort of social octopus. (8 arms to hold him, you know)

I hope he realizes that making fun of him on my iTunes playlist because he doesn't like dieselsweeties is my way of saying "I'd like to jump your bones."

Thanks, Ma!

This anti-Bush flash cartoon is brought to you by my mother, who felt the need to forward it to me yesterday. If only she would learn to send money; maybe then I'll call.

(Didn't Know I Was) UnAmerican

v.1
Didn't know I was unamerican
For choosing to give a damn
Or unpatriotic
For daring to take a stand
For what I believe in
Looks like freedom to me -
Expressions of liberty
Wanting our America to be
A responsible hegemony

v.2
Didn't know I was a communist
For wanting to share the wealth
It doesn't take an economist
To measure the cost of health
And what I believe in
Looks like heaven to me -
One human family
Where everybody's got enough to eat
And something warm to cover their feet

v.3
Didn't know I'd be labeled a terrorist
For daring to speak my mind
It's becoming more precarious
For failing to toe the line
And what I believe in
Sounds like freedom to me -
Like the Sons of Liberty
In 1773
Dumping 45 tonnes of tea

v.4
Didn't know I was in the minority
Of people who love the Earth
I hope it becomes a priority
Before it gets any worse
And what I believe In
Looks like heaven to me -
Where angels take the shape of the trees
Giving us clean air to breathe
From the rivers to the mountains and seas...

v.5
DIdn't know I hated my country
For acknowledging the Truth
This war is despicable profiteering
At the expense of our youth
And what I believe In
Looks like heaven to me -
All of humanity
Living as community
In relative harmony

I know it's just a song
But if the whole world sang along
How much longer would it be this way?

PS- New biography should be up within a few hours. Spastic and Sparse edition. It's fairly minimalist, and I'm a maximalist to the extreme, so we'll see how long it'll last.

In which I obsess some more

The exboyfriend hasn't been on AIM for the most part since we broke up. That was probably a good thing, because it kept me from sitting by the computer and hoping against hope that he'll IM me out of the blue and announce a business trip to my neck of the woods or something. His not being on AIM really helped with the 'out of sight' part of getting over him. And you know what? I think I am. I really do.

However, I wake up this morning and find not only that he's online, but that his away message asks people to watch Eminem's new video.



Did I... turn him straight?

Well, at the very least it makes it that much easier to get over him.



EDIT: Okay, so apparently it's a video blatantly making fun of and criticizing Bush. I suppose that makes it acceptable for him to have linked to it. But still.

She's dating Lou Reed!

So there's a Laurie Anderson performance I'd like to go see on Friday. Unfortunately, this weekend is Halloween, otherwise known as riot-time, which means no one really wants to do anything that doesn't involve imbibing gross amounts of cheap beer and destroying public works.

"Hey guys, does anyone want to wait a few hours before getting drunk on Friday and go to see a 57 year old woman's performance art/travelogue/epic poem about post 9/11 American culture? Don't worry, we'll only have to walk through 8 blocks during prime rioting afterward. Oh, and it only costs $10."

You can imagine how difficult it is trying to find someone to go with me.

Surprisingly enough, when I mentioned my situation to the cute boy in need of an acronym, he responded with "Well, I'm going to be at home visiting my girlfriend this weekend. Otherwise, I'd totally go out with you."

Even though he didn't mean it like that, it still made my weekend.

No, this post is not purely masturbatory

Straight boys are often the source of many fantasies, my own included. Frat boys seem to be one of most valuable offsets, if the internet is to be trusted. I suppose there's something about that which you cannot have: the ass is always sweeter on the other side, so to speak.

Yet most people forget that college guys are stupid. For example, last night my roommates played a rousing game of roshambo (with a lacrosse ball) and they didn't even playing doctor afterwards.

I will never understand straight guys.

Happy Birthday, Dear Rimbaud

Rimbaud, my favorite poet, becomes a sesquicentarian today. (Look it up.) Sometimes I think that my choice of literary idols might seem reckless, since my favorite poets seem to die young, save for Rimbaud, who, at twenty--my age now-- set down his pen and never wrote for the rest of his life.

I shudder to think of any reason for me to stop writing, though the grandiose statement he made by doing so is totally something I would do. Although, if I were to stop writing poetry now, I doubt that my body of work would inspire some young punk, 150 years after my death, to post a naughty ecard on his blog in my honor. I can hope, but I doubt it.

Also, I am well aware that Rimbaud sort-of had a thing for guys twice his age, but this is my blog and I'll post whatever naughty pictures I feel like. Besides, Verlaine wasn't much of a looker.

Part Deux

"You have a girlfriend?


I'm really glad that I wasn't the one who retorted that loudly when the boy I'm crushing over casually mentioned that he had a girlfriend. It's good to know that it's not just my gaydar that gets jammed when he's around.

Of course, it's also good to know that she goes to school in Vermont, because the internet is filled with articles on why long distance relationships often fail for college students.

I feel so evil for wishing that upon him.

Wait a sec... No I don't.

Saturday Night

I grew up doing community theatre; I've been in more than my fair share of musicals. I was in about one hundred plays or musicals by the time I graduated from high school, which doesn't include the times I assistant directed, worked sound, worked backstage, or was stage manager. One summer, I was in four plays, and that's just during the summer. I even helped teach a class on Vocal Projection for a College-for-Kids summer school program.

I now have a voice that can fill a room without effort. It's not a loud or booming voice, but it carries well. If I have no problem filling an auditorium or theatre, a standard room is nothing. Even if I answer a class from the back of the lecture hall, I'm not asked to repeat the question so the entire class can hear me.

I say this because, at the Michael Moore rally on campus Saturday night, he did an impression of Bush where he voiced the fear that the "chicks and faggots are taking over the world," I gave a slightly-facetious "Snap! You go, gurl!" which carried through the crowd, above the cheering voices of hundreds of college students and caused a lot more stares than I would have liked.

Even though I was pretty close to the stage, I couldn't tell if Michael Moore heard me or not due to a speaker directly blocking his face, but there's a chance he heard me. He laughed at other jokes he made, but this time there was more of a delayed reaction before he began to laugh like a bowl full of jelly. But there's a chance, and I still feel really stupid.

It's time for this good girl to get himself a bad boy

There's this guy, you know, like there always seems to be, in my AmLit class. He's got cold eyes, a constant scowl, and my affections, for some unknown reason. He's got that look down cold, the look of someone who'll make out with you and then beat you up afterward, someone who'd cross his fingers that you'd drop the soap in the shower, slice you up as soon as kiss you. A good-looking bad boy.

He always comes to class a few minutes late, on the opposite side of the lecture hall, far left on the edge to my right aisle. There are only so many times I check the clock and let my eyes linger on their return to the front before he catches on. He's asleep halfway through class, half of the time, the other half in a ostentatious display of boredom. Occasionally our eyes will meet, and it's straight back to Emerson, Fuller or whoever the professor's blabbering about that day.

Fine. Whatever. I can handle this clandestine mental molestation, how well his chest fills his sweatshirt, the breadth of his shoulders, the imagined strength of his legs, his baseball cap kept on while he's getting off. I enjoy the distance; I don't have to worry about meeting him after class near the bike racks or by the flagpole. Safe and distant. Safe and secure.

But then this punk walks into my discussion class this week, first time he's shown up. We're sitting in a horseshoe, which is odd, since most discussions are in a circle. I'm on one end. There's a table where the TA piles her shit and then an open seat, the other end of the horseshoe: the only seat left for him. He plods over and sits, directly in my line of vision. What's more, his head lines almost concurrently with the TA's, so lustful stares could be mistaken for rapt attention.

Fuck. We catch eyes. Twice. Thrice. Again. Damn. He's on to me, and he's not responding with a coy smile or a 'fag-punching' motion, but instead something inbetween. Damn him, and his dead eyes.

After class, we file out, joyous to be free of Melville for the next week. Equidistant from the door, we made our way to the door, him stepping back to allow me to pass (Ladies First, I wonder?).

I would have said something, but I was too busy choking on my own fear.

He turned a different way than I, and I didn't run into him at the bike racks, so I'm safe. But damn. It's my first "bad boy."

I am a bastard.

I totally just used (correctly) the word "antidisestablishmentarianism" in my AmLit test no for apparent reason except that I dislike my TA.

Debate

Sorry guys--no post-debate update, though it seems that not as many of you watched the debates either; the internet wasn't as inundated with the commentary as it was for the previous ones. I don't know, I'm just sick of them.

Instead, a few girls from the 2nd floor and I went to the mall to test out their new credit cards.

They work. With flying colors.


The biggest debate of last night, in my eyes, was whether or not the straps on the Nine West bag looked okay or not.

Lunch conversation

Roommate: So, how'd your Logic test go?

Me: Well, most of it was ok, but then the last problem totally raped me.

Roommate: That sucks.

Me: I know! I wasn't even dressed skanky.

Roommate: Well, I don't know. You are a cock tease.

In Memoriam (via Jason)

THE ULTIMATE SILENCE
October 12, 1998



Six years ago today, Matthew Shepard was murdered for being homosexual.

What will you do to end the silence?

Click here to post this on your own page or weblog

Funkier than a mosquito's tweeter

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but I don't follow the advice of Too $hort; not only do I hate the player, I hate the game, and I revel in those who also hate both the players and the games.

It's a mad world you know, yo, with them bitches and hos getting all up in my business, but I'm keeping it real with my bling bling. Word.

That's one of the reasons why I adore this Nina Simone song. Of course, the title helps too. I'm thinking about making a t-shirt of it.

Funkier than a Mosquito's Tweeter.mp3
(right click, download, etc.)

(edit: Yes, I know that this post is...lacking, but you get a Nina Simone mp3 so hopefully that makes up for it.)

Confession (or, An Anonyboy Moment)

I suppose I should mention that this weekend's outburst of testosterone has less to do with my mongoose-like reflexes and more to a deer or elephant's ritualistic bursts of aggression to prove his virility and to attract a mate.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen (I mean, who am I kidding?), there was a cute straight boy in the room whom I needed to impress, and needed to convince that I am most definitely not some wussy pansy queen worried that I might break a nail or mess my hair (both of which stayed impeccable during the tussle, by the way). He knows I'm a fan of the Greek love; although my dorm is the size of a closet, I'm not heading back into that anytime soon (especially on National Coming Out Day).

As for looks, he resembles a young John Kerry, save for the dyed black hair, 6 earrings, nose-ring and dress-shirt-cum-punk attire. As for his laugh, it's more a a loud "Ha" sort of snortle. As for his type, it's just like mine: tall, pale, and not exactly handsome but not scaring small children either. As for gaydar, I can't really tell. And as for a pseudonym, I have none at the moment.

All jokes aside, he knew two very direct ways into my heart.

1. He likes Jake Gyllenhaal, or in his words, "Even though I don't, you know, have sex with guys, I would still have sex with him." (Referring to my desktop photo of Jake in a (homo)erotic pose)

2. He adores Kathleen Hanna, otherwise known as my favorite recording artist of all time. In fact, he even started carrying around a picture of her in his billfold when his parents started asking why they haven't seen him with any girls.

I mean, come on. With idols such as these, how could I not want to jump his bones? It's been eleven months or so, and who knows--if I'm successful, then this blog could get a lot more interesting real quick.

I am so butch!

I totally beat somebody up last night for trying to mess with my Itunes. It started out jocular and jovial but then I totally fucking whooped his ass. He says he couldn't counter my attack because he was laughing so hard, but my laughter was pretty encompassing too. He's just mad because I totally emasculated him in front of a bunch of guys.

That'll teach him to mess with me. I'm like a fucking mongoose man. A mother-fucking mongoose.

Boycott, Updates

As a college student, I really can't do this, since my monetary contribution to the economy hasn't been much lately. But I will be doing it in spirit, and passing the link along.

Expect a theoretical layout change over the weekend, if Henry IV doesn't kill me first. As of right now, I'm just trying to figure out the script for random bannerheads. I have it, it's just not showing up on the site. If anyone wants to do that for me, I'd be much obliged. (I might also be naked in my thank you card, if that will sweeten the deal....) (I'm kidding.... or am I? I am.)

If it takes much longer for me to do it, I might not just mess with the layout, and just play with bannerheads for a while. Whatever. I make bannerheads for fun, so it's not that big of a deal.

Also, I'll be weeding through my links list (it's getting a bit intimidating, don't you think?), so make sure to write a post about how much you love me to ensure a place on the sidebar (I jest...or do I?). If you linked to me recently and you don't see your name on the sidebar, drop me a line and I'll see what I can do. No promises, but I'm pretty easy, at least when it comes to reciprical linking.

Sweet treats for fans of oral sex

This is the headline to the weekly sex advice column on campus. College students writing sex advice columns are hilarious. Not factually correct, I should mention, but hilarious none the less.

Celebrity Stalkings, Part I

I totally saw one of the Real Worlders on my way to class today. Much better looking on the television, I must say, though he could have just had a wild and crazy Tuesday--I think they call them "Trashed Tuesdays" here. I sometimes forget which day of the week goes with which euphemism for drinking.


You have to remember that I'm from Wisconsin, and for local celebrities who made it big, it's him, Dean Cain, and the members of Garbage who aren't Shirley Manson.

Requiem: Friday Night

I stood in front of the refrigerator, posturing my best Wonder Woman: hands on hips, head slightly cocked, incredulous expression on my face (my spandex in the wash).

"Come on, Bob. Let me get something to drink."

Over the course of the past 2 hours, he's had 3 and a half 40s (the other half of which now drips down the stairs--at last check, the river of Miller had trickled down to the 3rd floor), 5 shots of SoCo (doing his best Janis Joplin, it would seem) and God knows how many shots of Jagermeister. I wasn't about to let him have another 40 anytime soon. I don't know how to spell his words phonetically, but trust me, he wasn't as well-spoken as I write this.

"I'll get you a root beer, but you're done for the night." We started drinking around 7; he sipping a forty, me with my (weak) cosmos and screwdrivers. The plan was to get me tipsy/drunk for the first time, so we were going to stay in, bond and watch television. You know, stuff all good roommates do when they're getting sick of their suitemates and of the other people on the floor.

Unfortunately, we're sexy, we're cute and we're popular to boot, and over the course of the next hour we had scores of consorts from the dorm roaming to our room to join in on our carousal. At one point, there were 15 people in our dorm room glorified closet. And being the jovial host that he is, he took a shot every time someone wanted to take one. Everyone else was just starting their drunken escapades but with our head start he was pretty well gone by 9.

"Come on Bob. Let me have a drink. I'm really not, I'm not that drunk." He hadn't had anything to drink for the past week or two. He's been trying to quit smoking since school started (he has a crush on a girl 4 floors down who's adamant about only dating nonsmokers), and his weakness has always been dangling a cigarette in his mouth with a can of something in his hand.

"I don't think so. Prove to me that you can have another one. Why don't you wait for fifteen minutes?" I assumed he would pass out by then. In reality, it took twenty minutes, but he still didn't get another forty.

"Bob. Come on. I love you."

"I know."

"I love you like a roommate. I love you like a gay roommate." He put his hand on my shoulder in a blatant attempt to forge a bond and maintain a connection (and maintain balance), his blood-shot eyes looking straight into mine, which probably weren't wonderful either--2 screwdrivers, 2 cosmos, and 2 shots (one of SoCo, one Jagermeister) was about how much I'd drank since I came to school, if not in my whole life.

"I love you like a brother. We can go make out, but just let me have the beer." He moved in, or rather, stumbled forward and knocked his head on my shoulder.

"I don't want to make out with you. I want you to go in the hallway and calm down a bit." He was more than slightly rowdy when tipsy, and most people had bid their farewells, though a few of the more sober ones were bumming outside our door, debating whether or not it was raining too hard to justify a house party.

"Come on, I love you like a brother that I'd make out with." Earlier in the day, the girl he's falling for and I were joking: I don't remember what I said, but she laughed and replied with "Oh Bob, I love you." I responded with "I love you too. You're like a sister, but one that I'd totally make out with."

He couldn't remember his name at this point, but he could remember a joke I made at lunch. I suppose that's saying something.

Oh, and don't worry guys. My bout of celibacy is still intact and I'm still rusted shut. Even though I was a sheet (or two) to the wind and could have blamed any indiscretions on the screwdrivers, I didn't.

As the fifteen minutes made their way to a close, he made his way to the toilet for a little 'worship,' though with a bit of blasphemy by missing the Porcelain Goddess altogether and settling for Lady Linoleum. He has the top bunk, and after his two attempts I had to help lift his legs onto the bed. Then I went into the bathroom and grabbed some towels so he wouldn't be vomiting on himself all night.

By then it was 10 o'clock, and I cried a little on the inside because I knew I was done for the night by proxy. I totally would have gotten wasted for the first time last night, but I didn't.


Damn it.

Almost makes the $100 price tag worth it

According to my roommate's endlessly fascinating Human Sexuality textbook (which comes complete with Hustler cartoons), there are six stages of coming out.

Identity confusion (1st stage) starts the moment you think you might be different, you know, 'in that way.' Identity comparison (2) is when you start to rationalize your talents and preferences and wonder if, you know. Identity tolerance (3) is the first time you look at yourself in the mirror and are able to say "I'm gay." Identity acceptance (4) is when you start to come out to friends and family, and test the waters of the gay community. Identity pride (5), is the time after you come out and you make everything revolve around your sexuality. Identity synthesis (6) is when your sexuality no longer defines you, but is still a part of you.

For me, confusion came early--maybe first or second grade. I don't really know if I ever thought of myself as liking girls, at least exclusively. I had a crush on a girl in 4th grade, but that was more of my parents doing. Shannon and I were the two smartest kids in our class, and were the only people in the school labeled as "gifted," and our parents would often about how smart our children would be if we were to get married.

I once struck out in T-ball in 1st grade, which is pathetic by any standard, but I was one of the only kids in the school who could kick the ball over the fence in Kickball. Usually though, after school I took a lot of arts classes and did a ton of community theatre (close to 80 shows over the course of my life), so that takes care of comparison.

Tolerance, at least for myself, came in sixth grade, though that wavered through junior high. I remember once designating desires to dice, and an odd number would result in masturbating to male images/fantasies, and even would come to "regular" thoughts, though even during a Victoria's Secret commerical, the thoughts would slowly shift to the idea of the thousands of guys who were getting off at the same time.

I came out to my best friend the summer between 7th and 8th grade. She had a crush on me, which kind of put a damper over our friendship for the next five years. I never really came out to anyone after that. Up until last year, I came out as bisexual because I thought it would be easier, and even though I'd like to be, I'm not. There's been a lot of assuming on other people's parts, and nonchalance about my sexuality, but never a definite "I'm gay" sort of intervention except for my parents.

I came out to my mom in 10th grade as bisexual-in-theory, when she located my stash (which was mixed of both gay and straight porno mags) under my bed. I passed it off as wanting to be attracted to the person, not the gender (something I still wish I could do). I came out came out on my 19th birthday, after I stayed over at my boyfriend's house as a birthday gift to myself without completely telling them. See, I said that I was going to be out with friends all night, and so when I came home at 9 the next morning, they were really angry with me. They thought I was joking. They grounded me. I came out. They forgot to ground me after that.

I think I went to synthesis before pride. Throughout high school and last year, sexuality wasn't a big deal. It was there, and it didn't really play too much influence on my daily life. Probably the most pride during high school was during Senior year, when I starred in the local college performance of "The Laramie Project." No one from school came to see me in it (it was the week before the school show, and even though I found the time to star in both shows, no one else found the time to drive downtown and pay the $7. Bastards.

Now that I've transferred schools, it seems like everything is gay with me. Some of it is just being here and now. "Angels in America" and "The Laramie Project" have been playing on HBO2 every day for the past two weeks, and one day there were 4 sitcom reruns with gay subplots (Simpsons, Seinfeld, Friends, and Fraiser). While I no longer think I'm the only gay person in the building (there's a guy on the 8th floor named Ean, with an E, from whom I'm getting definite vibes, but I've never actually spoken to him), I'm still haven't found any for friendship or something more.

I've gotten more defensive about my sexuality now that I'm the token minority of the building. I'm more likely to quip about it, or to make a big deal out of something, or to use it as an excuse to get out of things. It's probably really annoying, but since there's one black foreign exchange student, a handful of Koreans who mostly keep to themselves, and 100 upper-middle class white kids, I must subconsiously feel as though it's my duty to bring up the minority visibility or something.

I guess on the scale, I'm about a 5. I've dated a girl and it felt ok, but it's just not for me. I still really wish I could say it was more about the person and less about the sexual organ attached to the person, but I can't, despite my best efforts.

So. I suppose that's enough of reading my roommate's textbooks, and that it's high time for me to crack open my own.