Note.

A giant punch in the face goes to Mapquest for encouraging me to drive past Heart's place repeatedly this past week. Not that I was really torn up about it; I've past Denial, Anger, Bargaining, and bypassed Depression, and more than accomplished Acceptance. Well, maybe not acceptance and more of a generic sort of wistful pity for him. But I still would rather try and avoid his neck of the wood when possible.

I know, I know, I should have used google maps, but I was on dialup at the time, and it took too long to load.

Also, I am almost completely settled into the dorms. And yes, I again am having trouble accomodating my underwear collection

I am writing graffiti on your body

On Your Side
You are probably mild-mannered and rational. Since this semifetal sleeper takes up a minimal amount of space, he tends to be a giving lover. Also, he's way too sensible to play -- or stand for -- mind games.
"Your Bedtime Body Language (PICS)(Guys Only)"


Yeah, this post has nothing to do with anything, except that it has a picture of a guy in his underwear. And really, that should be enough.

Oh, and yeah, I'm still at my aunt and uncles. They don't have internet, which explains the sparcity of posts for the past week. I move on the 31st, which means that regular posting should resume either by the end of the week, or next week at the latest.

Birds fly over the rainbow

One of the problems with coming out to various family members over the past few years is that I can not, for the life of me, remember if I came out to my aunt and uncle, with whom I'm staying for the week before school starts. They live in a suburb of Madison, and I've been heading downtown occasionally to try and find a job, play with my schedule, pick up some books, check out the remodelling being done to my dorm, etc etc. As it is, I've mostly just played it safe and pretended that I never came out to them.

Then again, I spent last night watching at PBS special on Judy Garland. That counts as coming out, right? Right?

I will become a silhouette

So here's the lowdown, or here is what the lowdown would be if I were the kind of person with 'lowdown' in my vocabulary.

My grandparents (the evil ones) are driving me down to Madison this morning and dropping me off at my aunt and uncle's. I'll be staying there for about a week, until I move into the dorms on the 31st. During that week I hope to find a job, catch up with a few friends, and buy all of my textbooks before the other forty thousand or whatever horde of students comes along and snatches up all the cheap ones.

I have absolutely no idea about the frequency with which I will be posting for the next week or so. I guess we'll find out. Maybe this would be a good chance to peruse the archives?

Anyways, here's an online quiz about something or other.

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Your personality type is RLOAI

You are moderately reserved, moody, organized, moderately accommodating, and intellectual, and may prefer a city which matches those traits.

The largest representation of your personality type can be found in the these U.S. cities: Oklahoma City, Albuquerque/Santa Fe, Indianapolis, Reno, Greenville/Spartanburg, Cincinnati, Memphis, Chicago Area, Pittsburgh, Orlando, Louisville, Providence and these international countries/regions Czech Republic, Guam, Austria, Luxembourg, Philippines, Iceland, Indonesia, Portugal, Taiwan, Hungary, Israel, France, New Zealand, Slovenia, Canada

What Places In The World Match Your Personality?
Powered by CityCulture.org

News Flash

My friend Mel just called to let me know that Carson Kressley is circumsized.

She knows this because she was at an underwear party. He was wearing a trashy white speedo thing, but then he got a little soused.

Isn't that kind of gross? Both the image of Carson Kressley in a white speedo and the fact that my friend called me from the club because she thought I should know.

I leave Tuesday morning, people.

There is nothing as annoying as having your neighbors get highspeed wireless three days before you move. Sure, it's been cutting in and out due to the weather (I think) but sweet merciful Jesus it's so much better than dialup.

5 Things About Me

1. I pronounce his name David Sed-ahr-is but hers Amy Sed-air-is. I have no idea why.

2. I arrange my AIM buddy list with the people I like closer to the top, and the people I dislike near the bottom, and play with the order constantly.

3. I liked it better three years ago, when I was the only person to have a crush on my boyfriend, Jake. I was first crushing on him when I saw him onstage in London back in 2002.

4. I really, really wish I would have written We Will Become Silhouettes by the Postal Service. (mp3)

4.5 It took like, forever to upload that song to the server, so you guys better download it and love it. That's an order, meeeester.

5. I'm developing a total cyber-crush on him.

I’m so young, I’m so goddamn young

I hate asking shit like this. It always seems so... self-aggrandizing or something.

Anyway, there's a contest I'd like to enter, for the most original voices of the twentysomething generation, writing about their lives, their passions, their world.

Be specific. Be unique. We want you to tell us—and, by extension, the entire world—something we haven’t heard before, something that defines you as a member of this burgeoning generation. Make us laugh, make us think, make us mad—just don’t make us yawn.

I know I'm David Sedaris-lite, and wouldn't call myself one of the most orignal voices of my generation. But I figured, hey, I've been writing personal, non-fiction essays in English for a couple of years now, and both the prize money and publication sound like fun. Surely I can just take something I've already written, tighten it up a bit, and send it off.

So basically, I'm asking the people who've put up with this blog for a while to think back, think hard, and try and remember your favorite posts, or even just a favorite story arc (sexually harassing my roommate, bitching about Heart, pining over the ex), let me know.

I promise that if you pick the blog post that gets me published and makes me a literary superstar of my generation, I will photograph myself in compromising postions of your choice and send them to you.

No I won't. Well, maybe I will. Comment and find out.

Har De Har Har

I went and saw "Visiting Dr Green" the other day with my dad. He's still got cabin fever, and we figured sitting in a theatre wasn't much different than sitting in front of the tv. He gets the okay as to whether or not he can go out and drive and do shit again this afternoon. Besides, it was technically a comedy, and my dad's a sucker for cheap humor.

Anyways, we came home, and he was recounting the play to Mom, and he did this terrible pun, totally typical of his humor.

"Well Bob, I guess I know why they called it a comedy."

"Because in a tragedy the main character has to die?"

"No, because they sure couldn't have called it a straight play."


Now, I won't bore you with details, but I'll just say that my dad has come a long way since I came out to him two years ago, even if he still has a 8 year old's sense of humor.

Faygala

I saw "Visiting Mr. Green" by Jeff Baron last night. Its the story of a gay man sentenced to community service, visiting a crotchety old Jew once as week, sort of "Tuesdays With Morrie" meets "The Man Who Came to Dinner" sort of thing, except for the overwhelming urge to punch Mitch Albom.

The play wasn't bad. The first act dragged a little bit, and I think it had a lot do to with the script, but the second act picked up a lot. After the homo comes out to the Jew, there's a lot of "faygala" this and "faygala" that, which is always a bonus. I really enjoy the word faygala.

Anyways, I knew both actors, and the director, from back in my theatre days. The guy who plays the gay guy used to date my best friend in high school, and we couldn't stand each other back then.

I hate to say it, but he's looking good now. He's lost a lot of weight, and at least for the play he's dressing better. He now looks kinda like the gay guy who lived next door last semester. Very much a cub.

I forgot where I was going with this, so I'm just going to post a picture and objectify Jake.

Mmmm...

I hope I hold a special place with the rest of them

I dated a girl once, did you know that?

Oh, the follies of youth. How ridiculous and raw they can be. Har de har har.

Don't worry, I only got to first base, so I didn't catch any of the "straight cooties." Well, maybe it was second base. I'm not exactly sure of the graduations, but to be honest, I also don't remember much about our physical transactions. They weren't much to write about.

That could be the meanest thing I've ever said in my life.

But really, dating her was a good thing for me. As soon as I was in a relationship, I suddenly felt more open about my "bisexuality," like she was a buffer. Of course, it meant that she and I gawked over cute guys more often that most couples, and when my bisexuality sort of faded into full-blown homosexualism, she couldn't have been completely surprised.

Anyways, so she IMed me yesterday. I'd like to think of myself as the kind of guy who's on good terms with his exes, because I read that you can tell a lot about a person by how they interact with their exes, but the last time I chatted with her it was about a year ago, when I first moved to Madison and I wanted someone's email address, and I get an email every four or five months from "the good ex," plus that awkward phone call last week, and rumor has it that Heart (aka the "bad ex") has been talking shit about me in the gay.com chat rooms.

(I only found that out because someone IMed me to say that he was planning on hooking up with him that afternoon, and wanted to know if the cock pic he sent was real.)

After recapping the obnoxious drama of my summer (Heart's douchery, my father's heart surgery, my sister's bipolar problems, my mom's menopause, etc) and recounting the current affairs of mutual friends, she mentions that she's become an English major now, with a teaching certificate, though lately she's been wanting to write, and since I am going to school for writing, you know, I'm the one to talk to.

Conversation conversation, advice suggestion conversation etc, and she asks whether I've thought about writing "my story," that big long, grandiose story of my life. I mention that I keep a (somewhat) anonymous blog, and I've sorta got a David Sedaris-lite thing going: personal essays, most with attempts at wit.

She then started getting into this thing about whether she could write for herself, or if the desire to rewrite history is too great. She'd also be too worried about forgetting someone, or leaving them out, or giving only a slanted view of their relationship. I recommended essays, again. Thinking in short stories, even autobiographic ones, is much easier, I think.

Which, of course, triggered all sorts of questions about writing personal essays, like who I'm leaving out, or who I'm maligning, or who I'm making too big a deal over.

Would she make it into my big, autobiographical novel, should I choose to write one? Would I appear in hers? Would I make it into "the good ex's?" Into Heart's? Would I make it into any blogger's big autobiographical novel, if they had a chapter about their online life? I'm a Leo, man. I want to know these things.

This is what happens in political circles, I know. Before people read the book, they read the index at the back of the book, to find out how many times they are referenced.

I don't think anyone here has read David Leavitt's Martin Bauman, but it's one of my favorite books, and it's one of those big semi-autobiographical. There's a bannerhead designed off of the coverart. The first sentence of a review I found of it reads

I have always had the suspicion that David Leavitt is not writing up to his potential. And now he decided to write a novel about it.

I have a feeling that if I ever start to write write, there is going to be many a review with that same sentiment.

Interestingly enough, on high school reports it never read "does not work up to potential" but if I had to think of a phrase to best describe myself, I do think that's the one.

Both of [them] are gonna be the wife

There were lesbians in matching hawaiian shirts. No one told me the lesbians would be wearing matching outfits: hawaiian shirts, khakis and Birkenstocks. This was not how I wanted to spend my last night as a 20 year old.

Last Friday, my good friend Mel got suckered into singing for some obscure relative's lesbian wedding. It was the first time she ever recieved an invitation with a "plus one" attachment, so she jumped at the chance. Since all the boys she doinks live in New York, she asked me, the fag to her hag (even though she's hot and I hate that phrase) to accompany her.

At first I felt bad in the car, because I realized that my pants and my suitcoat didn't match exactly. It was one of those deals where I was wearing two shades of black, three including my shoes. It was fine in soft light, but once I was in the sun it was noticable, and as a young somewhat fashion forward mobile homosexualist, I was displeased.

Of course, I needn't have worried, since the night had a Hawaiian theme to it. Leis, flowers downloaded from the internet stapled to the walls, pineapple clip art, a wedding cake with a beach scene, and, as previously stated, the brides wore matching Hawaiian shirts, khakis, and birkenstocks, as did most of the wedding party.

Mel and I were unaware of this festive theme. We stood out like sore thumbs. We looked smashing, and everyone else looked like overweight tourists.


It was an awful wedding, one that conservatives could point at and say "See how they're fucking up marriage?" and they'd be right.

In addition to the "theme," these lesbians fucked everything up. The 'priest' was just a friend of theirs who relied on the notecards far too much. He even said "over" once, before realized that it was a note for him to flip over the card. He mispronounced their names. We almost felt sorry for him, he was so nervous, sweating profusely. But then we got over it.

Mel is a jazz vocal major at the Manhattan School of Music, so her song kicked ass, of course. But for the rest of the music... oh man. The other singers, good friends of the couple, used a karaoke machine to sing Tim McGraw songs. And the other singers were, well, loud and not very good. And, for before and after the ceremony, the lesbians stuck in a "Classical Music for Dummies" cd and put it on shuffle. "Firebird" next to "Rhapsody in Blue" next to "Moonlight Sonata" next to "1812 Overture" next to "Bolero." It was not a pretty sight.

As for the DJ, well, one of the lesbian's younger brothers wants to be a DJ when he grows up, so they hired him. Not only did he set up during the last bit of the ceremony, causing a distraction, but he wouldn't play until 8 because he wouldn't get paid until then. That meant an extra hour of the classical music for dummies. To make matters even worse, he didn't even DJ. He made 3 mix cds and put it on shuffle, causing for some awkward playlists.

I won't even mention the other lesbians at the wedding. I'm not even sure if they were lesbians, since almost all of them taped down their breasts. And no one likes trannies. Oh shut up. You don't like them either. Don't lie.

Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. I'd be like "Lesbian Wedding? Um Ick," but I wanted something somewhat interesting to make a decent story after my birthday. Also, Mel promised me that there'd be an open bar. Mel is a liar. The lesbians decided at the last minute just to buy a keg.

Let me repeat that.


A keg.


I hate lesbians.

Tom Cruise is gay! Who's he having hot sex with?

We're in bizarro world where Tom Cruise renounces scientology and comes out. He starts dating boys and the celebrity magazines are taking hot pictures of him kissing his boyfriend! Who would be the hottest?

A queery, via K.


Personally, I say Brad Pitt. Not because I think they'd be the hottest couple per se, but because their relationship would result in tons of gay vampire jokes.

And even though Burt Bacharach thought that what the world needs now is love, sweet love, he was wrong. What the world needs now is gay vampires.

Sweet gay vampire love.

I'd Sleep on the White Tile Lobby Floor

My Grandma is evil, conservative jerk.

However, when she has a habit of handing out $500 check for birthdays and Christmas to her grandkids attending college, it means I play nice. And that means she's the last person I'm coming out to, after the $500 checks stop coming.

I know. I'm so shallow and materialistic. Shallow, materialistic, and poor.

Anyway, she came and took the family (at least the ones who weren't in the hospital) out to lunch.

She opens her purse and takes out a clipping from her local newspaper. It was a letter to the editor she had written, angry that they were now including gay and lesbian "commitment ceremonies" with the wedding announcements.

And who should call, at that very moment, but my exboyfriend?

No, not Heart. Goodness, no. I hesitate to call this guy the "good ex" and Heart the "bad ex," even though Heart has an ugly ugly soul and will be reincarnated as a dung beetle with some terminal sexually transmitted disease.

So there I was, with the first love of my life on my cell, whose voice I hadn't heard in almost two years, and my bigoted semi-rich grandmother on the other side of me, spouting Biblical verses and blocking my way out of the booth.

Now let me tell you something about awkward conversations. I've been through my fair share. I've hemmed and hawed, gritted my teeth, fumbled and rolled my eyes, all with tension in the air so palpable I wanted to mold it into a hammer and end it all.

But this one takes the cake. I mean, fucking A, man.



The old RawYouth, back when this blog first started, would have made a big deal about the fact that the ex called my cell, when I didn't have a cell phone when we dated, and he didn't call me from his cell, he called me using a friend's phone, which meant that he's memorized my number and ooooooooooh first love angst.

But now I'm just cool.

(Don't tell him this, but he was at a picnic with some friends and I think someone spiked his lemonade or something, maybe just a bit. Anyway, he contributed to the awkwardness, too.)

I was able to talk him the next day on AIM and explain the whole thing. He seemed cool with the explanation as to why I was acting so weird on the phone, and wished that I would have handed my grandma the phone and let him take care of things. Since he sounded a bit, well, glug-glug, and I doubt she knows how to use one of those "cellophones," I'm glad I didn't hand over the phone; besides, I hadn't had a chance to cash her check yet.

Besides, I have the sweetest cell phone number on earth, which helps explain why he knew to call me. No, I'm not going to post the number, but I will replace numbers with letters.

ABA-CBBC.

It's a fucking sweet number man. All palindromic and easy as fuck to remember. Which is why I'm not making a big deal about it. Just a small 'hmmm...' sort of a deal. I'm not surprized that he remembered my birthday, since I was born on the Hiroshima anniversary and he was born on September 11th: our celebrations coincide with massive deaths. It was like, fate or something.

Don't laugh at me he was my first love shut up go away I hate you.

Don't Give Me No Seltzer Cos I Need More Than Fizz

Drinks consumed on my birthday:

Blue Raspberry Margarita
Cranberry Mist
Berry Chica
Cosmopolitian Cocktail
Jack Daniels

God I'm such a homo.

Now, before you get all excited about that Jack Daniels nightcap, I should mention that it was a Jack Daniels Wildberry Country Cocktail.

And this was over the course of the entire day, mind you. I may have been an excellent conversationalist that evening, and buzzing just a bit, but I still was able to type coherently (just ask Anonyboy). I was probably more gregarious than usual, sure, but it was on a full stomach and I drank plenty of water. I woke up at 9 the next morning refreshed, not hung over.

Then again, waking up after your twentyfirst birthday not feeling even just a little bit hung over means that there's something wrong with you.

May the lines sag heavy and deep tonight

Yes, I am now legal. It's always a good idea to ask. Now I can at least get a free drink when some old guy comes up to me and asks if I'm into older men.

My birthday wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I had talked it down for so much, really expecting it to suck something fierce that when it turned out decent, it really seemed better.

For those of you who weren't around last year to hear me complain about my habit of sucky birthdays, well, I have a habit of sucky birthdays. Here's a checklist of what happened on my last five birthdays.

Got food poisoning? Check.
Major car accident? Check.
Came out to parents? Check.
Party cancelled at the last minute? Check.
Father in hospital? Check.

But my father's getting out of the hospital this morning, it looks like. And as long as he maintains a low-fiber, low-fat diet, he should be fine. It'll suck having him around the house all the time again, but hey! I'll be gone in like, 2 weeks.

No, there was no drunken debauchery, no midnight gropings with vodka oozing out all my orifices, no accidentally vomiting all over a trick, nothing like that. And because I am a cocktease milking it for all its worth trying to bump up site hits lazy, I'll be peppering the next few days with some stories about my weekend. You'll just have to stay tuned.



(This post has nothing to do with the Smiths giving me a bouquet.)

Grassy Ass (Gracias)

If you were the delightful Scot who recently bought me almost $100 worth of DVDs off my amazon.com wish list, would you please be so kind as to drop me an email/blog address so that I may thank you properly? The boxed set of Six Feet Under and a Jeff Buckley concert deserves at least a cheesy, semi-naked thank you card, either a premade email card or a homemade one with some boudoir shots of myself.

I'll also write fawning blog posts about your sexual prowess, animal magnetism and ample penis and shower you with as many site hits (if you keep a blog) as I can muster.

Thanks!

What's the Matter With Kids Today?

So, um, hi guys. This totally isn't me, so don't like, uh, shoot the messenger or whatever, but my friend over there, his name's like Pete or Peter or something, totally thinks you're cute. He's the blonde one over there, looking all embarassed. Ohmygod, you guys aren't like, boyfriends or something, right?

He did call, put your voodoo dolls away, though later than he said he would. We decided to grab a late bite to eat. Unfortunately, there was a convention of underage homos at the late-diner we decided upon.

Yes, a convention. There was a big GLBT youth meeting thing downtown yesterday afternoon, and about twenty high school gay boys huddled over a table on the other side of the restaurant, staring at us, giggling, and talking hushedly amoung themselves.

They were dressed like a new sort of gay army: almost all of them had frosted hair, multiple bracelets and rings, tight 'vintage-inspired' tshirts with kitchy slogans, rainbow belts, tight jeans (some screenprinted). They were probably wearing faggy shoes too, but I didn't notice. They smiled with all of their teeth showing, and I'm pretty sure I saw some glitter on one of them.

Our conversation was pretty awkward, more awkward than I thought, so the distraction was nice. We acted cool about it, he took getting hit on by a 17 year old in stride. (Apparently, in New York they have a thing for Midwestern guys, and he got hit on a lot by random strangers last month when he stayed there.) I've never really been hit on, and they tried including me in the conversation but they weren't interested.

Being polite and amused beyond all belief, we invited the poor guy over to our table, and had some conversation, finding out that they were all jailbait and other pleasantries. The whole time, my guy and I snuck clandestine smiles at each other, in awe of what was going on.

Eventually, we eased them off our table (their curfew was 11), though not before the guy with the crush grabbed my guys cell phone and gave him his number. After they left, our conversation picked up, talking about what it was like for us old fogies in high school.

I mean, I have torn feelings. I mean, I don't like gay people and probably wouldn't have dressed in tight clothing and pranced about like a gaggle of fairies (which, in all fairness, these guys were). These guys were GAY: capital G, capital A, capital Y.

Three years ago, back when I was a senior, that sort of thing never would have happened. I was out, sure, but only as bi, and then only in theory: I was open-minded enough to consider dating a guy, but I'd never gone through with it. These 16 and 17 year olds were making allusions to how many guys they'd been with. (A number much, much, much higher than my own.)

It would have been nice to have had more gay friends in high school. Hell, it would have been nice to have gay people in high school. Unfortunately, they had sort of a borg mentality. Everyone was sort of the same. They all sort of talked the same, dressed the same, and had a lot of the same mannerisms. It was like an army of twinks. It would have been a pedophile's wet dream if they weren't so, well, mincing.

There's something to be said about being different and gay, you know? You're different from everyone else, and no one knows? It can be scary and isolating, but it can be creative and secretive and thrilling, too.

I don't want to see being gay turn into another clique in a bad teen comedy: the jocks, the cheerleaders, the mathletes, the stoners, and the homos. I want there to be homos with the jocks, the cheerleaders, the mathletes, the science club, et all. I'm sure they enjoy the comraderie, but there's something to be said about diversifying, too.

I have absolutely no idea what would have happened if a friend of mine in high school walked up to a guy in a restaurant and told him that I thought he was cute. That just never would have happened.

Ohmygod, you guys aren't like, boyfriends or something, right?

His response: Oh no, nothing like that.
My response: Not really.

Fucking A, man. No goodnight kiss, but no goodnight handshake either. Just an 'oh, my car's over there, give me a call sometime this week and we can catch a movie or something.' He's going out of town this weekend, so there goes my birthday 'nondate.'

Ugh.

I Almost Had a Weakness

No, I don't have any salacious details for you all about last night's "totally not a date." Because, in fact, there was, most totally, not a date. He cancelled, saying that he was too tired from work.

And by cancelled, I mean that I called him an hour and a half after he was supposed to call me, and he said that he was still feeling tired after work.

Ugh. He totally doesn't like me.

He's so adorable. He looks like Jeremy East, at least from the neck up. I haven't seen below my guys neckline, so I can only assume that he looks as yummy in his all together.

Did I really just refer to this guy as "my guy?" Fucking A.

You know, I was really hoping this would be different. Light, casual, fun. No strings, just some good times, maybe a date for my birthday. After what can be deemed only a disastrous relationship this spring and a summer with my father in and out of the hospital, a few weeks of flirting, casual dating, and the occasional make-out session really would have hit the spot.

Especially since my birthday's been postponed. My dad's back in the hospital, with a case of gastro-neuropathy (or something like that) and they don't expect him out for a while. Somehow it just feels wrong to celebrate a birthday (even a milestone 21st) on Saturday when your father is in the hospital, unable to walk or eat solid foods. (Well, he was able to eat a little bit today, but you get the idea.)

My parents have promised to make it up to me for Christmas, or maybe my half-birthday. Even though insurance is taking care of everything, there are still enough unexpected expenses to pull the pursestrings taut. No promised laptop for school this year. Couple that with my complete lack of friends at home for the summer, and it looks like I'll be spending my 21st birthday at an awkward dinner with my grandma then futzing around gay.com, marvelling at all the casual sex, date connections and hookups that everyone else gets to have.

He is supposed to call me again tomorrow after he gets off of work. I'm not holding my breath.

Hey

This is Bob, from the other night. It was obnoxiously slow last night at work, and I got to wondering why you haven't replied to that voicemail I sent you last week. I came up with a few theories; let me run them past you.

1. You're having problems with your voicemail, which means that you probably won't get this one either, and this whole long spiel is moot.

2. You actually did not have a good time, and were just acting to fulfill some sadistic Method-acting for a play you have coming up--to which I say "Bravo."

3. You're following some arcane dating rule that says to wait at least 3 days after he calls you, to keep him guessing--to which I say "Bite Me."

4. You talked to your mom and found out that my voice cracked during voice lessons my junior year, and, as a composing major, the very idea of an imperfect voice repulsed you.

Of course, it could just be that the job you just started is totally kicking your ass. Anyway, I was just wondering how you were doing, and how that new job is going. You should call me, and we should hang out sometime. I don't work tonight, but I work tomorrow night, and for the rest of the week I get off of work by 4. Though, as I think about it, you probably are working a lot of nights. Oh well. Call me and we'll figure something out. XXX-XXXX. Bye!


Well, what do you know? It worked, and we've got plans for tonight.