"TRIAL MARRIAGE"
From David Leavitt’s Martin Baumann
There is a joke—not a very good one—
that I remember hearing a lot in those years,
the mid-eighties.
"So this lesbian is having a drink with her straight friend,"
the joke goes
"and she says that the next day she and her lover
are celebrating their fifth anniversary.
'Well, I’ve been meaning to ask you,'
the friend says,
'when you people talk about your anniversary, do you mean the anniversary
Of the day you met?
Of the first time you slept together?
Of the day you moved in together?'
And the lesbian says, 'Yes.'"
Much can be deduced, from this joke,
about the speed with which Eli and I,
in the weeks following our long-postponed meeting,
moved from blind date to what he was calling,
even on the second night,
"Trial Marriage."
March 30, 2005
It's like a post, but in poetic form!
Ritual predates speech.
he sits at the exact same spot
all semester. I play coy,
but he turns and says
that I might as well please myself
because someone’s gonna get it eventually
and I don’t look like the kind
to wait for a rainy day
This is when I contradict him
au contraire I say
I’m not one for sun and flesh
and german decadence
I’m waiting to pounce on a sure thing
it only looks as like it as damn it
But like an artificial flower stuck
in time-lapse photography
I’ve been waiting for a long time to bloom
I get less action than a condom machine
in a convent. What can I say?
I try too hard to be Mr. Righteous
a coward at the eye of god
like Big Brother is watching
with the compounded vision of an insect
and giving me the evil eye a million times
A colon and a parenthesis make for a sad face
and I’ve always been a sucker for punctuation
so maybe he’s right. Maybe I should put an end
to waiting for a less-than sign with a three
and bloom for any bumblebee with seed to spread
And maybe then I can finally couple
an end-parenthesis with a colon
give in to my prehistoric roots
jump the trigger and pounce
make my own rainy days
and stop singing such sad sad torch songs
EDIT: I may or may not have taken the poem's advice last night. Details to follow when I'm good and ready. And I recover from the clandestine sexual hedonism.
March 29, 2005
My Spring Break Boy-Toy
There's something to be said about feeling loved. I think that's what I enjoyed (though there was plenty to enjoy about him) most about the ex. His name, for those of you who didn't catch on, is Peter, though it feels wrong to actually refer to him by name in the blog. I don't know why. I could definitely feel his love for me. I didn't feel it always, but when I did feel it, it was some of the happiest I've ever felt.
That's probably the thing I miss most. This whole society-induced celibacy thing, man, it sucks something fierce (see pretty much every post I've ever written), but I miss the whole 'the greatest thing you'll ever learn is to be loved and be loved in return' bullshit. God I hate quoting Moulin Rouge.
The thing is, I've grown distant from all of my friends from high school. I'm pretty sure I've been replaced by taller, more jaded, more sarcastic homos in various colleges around the country. That's fine. There are more than a few girls in the building who dote on my every sardonic comment and double entendre. But it's not the same. I never really thought about loving my friends, but now that it's gone... yeah.
I miss it. I miss lighting up someone's face by walking in the room. I miss someone pretending to be indignant with me. I miss cradling my head in the crevice of his chest. I miss cracking someone up with a sly tilt of the head. I miss silly little things like clandestinely holding hands and way-too-long IM conversations late at night about who misses who the most. I miss feeling guilty about having someone wipe away my tears. I miss all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas. I miss it.
~~~~~
I've mentioned in the past how I occasionally babysit for some kids from church. They're great kids. The youngest, August, is 19 months, and is the cutest little blonde haired, blue eyed little thing since Hitler's first aryan wet dream. I didn't think he would recognize me from the times I babysat him during Christmas break.
Imagine my surprise when, during silent meditation and prayer, I hear
"Bob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob"
The little tyke had slipped from his mom's lap and was waddling down the aisle to greet me, with a huge shit-eating grin on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. He got to me and started trying to climb onto my lap. I lifted him up, he stood on my legs and gave me a b-i-i-g hug. We're talking a whole body sort of hug, none of this 'two-taps-on-the-back-I'm-a-straight-male' sort of thing.
I lifted him up and made a motion to his parents that I had him, and it was fine. He then lifted his little head and gave me a kiss on the nose. I smiled at him, made the 'shush' face with my forefinger to my lips, and turned him around to watch the service. And beamed like a motherfucker.
If only he were twenty years older. And potty-trained. Then, maybe, I'd have been the happiest guy on earth.
Eh, who am I kidding. It still felt pretty great.
That's probably the thing I miss most. This whole society-induced celibacy thing, man, it sucks something fierce (see pretty much every post I've ever written), but I miss the whole 'the greatest thing you'll ever learn is to be loved and be loved in return' bullshit. God I hate quoting Moulin Rouge.
The thing is, I've grown distant from all of my friends from high school. I'm pretty sure I've been replaced by taller, more jaded, more sarcastic homos in various colleges around the country. That's fine. There are more than a few girls in the building who dote on my every sardonic comment and double entendre. But it's not the same. I never really thought about loving my friends, but now that it's gone... yeah.
I miss it. I miss lighting up someone's face by walking in the room. I miss someone pretending to be indignant with me. I miss cradling my head in the crevice of his chest. I miss cracking someone up with a sly tilt of the head. I miss silly little things like clandestinely holding hands and way-too-long IM conversations late at night about who misses who the most. I miss feeling guilty about having someone wipe away my tears. I miss all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas. I miss it.
~~~~~
I've mentioned in the past how I occasionally babysit for some kids from church. They're great kids. The youngest, August, is 19 months, and is the cutest little blonde haired, blue eyed little thing since Hitler's first aryan wet dream. I didn't think he would recognize me from the times I babysat him during Christmas break.
Imagine my surprise when, during silent meditation and prayer, I hear
"Bob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob-ob"
The little tyke had slipped from his mom's lap and was waddling down the aisle to greet me, with a huge shit-eating grin on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. He got to me and started trying to climb onto my lap. I lifted him up, he stood on my legs and gave me a b-i-i-g hug. We're talking a whole body sort of hug, none of this 'two-taps-on-the-back-I'm-a-straight-male' sort of thing.
I lifted him up and made a motion to his parents that I had him, and it was fine. He then lifted his little head and gave me a kiss on the nose. I smiled at him, made the 'shush' face with my forefinger to my lips, and turned him around to watch the service. And beamed like a motherfucker.
If only he were twenty years older. And potty-trained. Then, maybe, I'd have been the happiest guy on earth.
Eh, who am I kidding. It still felt pretty great.
March 28, 2005
St Patricks Day Faggotry
All right. I'm back. Hope the ex didn't bore you guys too much while guestblogging. I'd probably say his guest blogging was a success, except that he tried to post a picture of me in drag, which sort of put a damper on his posts.
I didn't really take a break from posting. I still wrote a few posts during break to add to the backlog. Since this post is about St. Patricks Day, it goes first.
Well shit. Some drunks had started a fire, for real. How unacceptable. I made for the backstairwell, and joined the queue of drunks trying to make their way out of the building. Very interesting, but hard to describe.
And cold. Have you forgotten that I live in Wisconsin? It was snowing out at the time, but the temperature was hovering somewhere around 32*, so the streets and sidewalks were covered in this big slushie mess when we made our way outside and into the street.
I spy my friend Teegs, whose birthday it was (or rather would be as soon as she woke up the next morning--at 3 am, the differences between the previous day and the next day are tentative at best.) The point was, her birthday was Friday. Teegs was barefoot.
"BOB I'M COLD!"
"Why aren't you wearing shoes, my dear?"
"I was in the elevator, and then the fire alarm went off and I could go back upstairs because people were coming down." There's nothing like being caught in an elevator during a fire to sober you up. Teegs was halfway there, and halfway gone.
"Oh come here."
And in some miraculous boost of chivalry, I offered her my clogs, which she wouldn't accept. I offered her my jacket, which she wouldn't accept. Even when I told her it was her birthday present, she wouldn't accept. Eventually, after much debating, we came to compromise. I would give her one slipper, and I would wear the other.
She being drunk, she had trouble standing on one foot, and so I on one foot and Teegs on one foot linked arms and made like flamingos in winter jackets, each perched on one foot, trying to stand up and not fall over. Or rather, have Teegs not fall over in the slush puddles, which were getting too deep for my slippers to do any good.
"BOB THE FIRETRUCKS!" Teegs suddenly realized that the sirens blaring and the flashing lights were headed towards us, though we were on the curb across the street from our building. "C'MON" With that, she grabbed onto my waist and started hopping up the driveway and towards the parking lot across the street.
She didn't notify me that we were moving across the street, and I fell. Hard. Right on my elbow. It smarted tons. TONS.
Turns out, the elevator circuits caught on fire. Lucky Teegs made it out just in time, though she did freak out royally when she found out.
Long story short, my left elbow hurts something fierce. There's a nasty bruise and everything. I'm right handed, so I can still do most things, but I can't extend my left arm all the way. I also can't bend it less than a 60* angle. It doesn't hurt too much if it's inbetween, but the extremes hurt like a mother.
And so, for most of Spring Break, I kept my left arm clenched and up towards the middle of my chest, in some sort of Bob Dole impersonation. Unfortunately, I forgot to keep my hand in a fist on more than one occasion, and walked around with THE MOST exaggerated limp wrist I've ever seen on a person. When I walked past a mirror, even I wanted to punch me in the face. It was not a fun way to spend spring break.
(PS-The arm is better now, though it still smarts sometimes.)
I didn't really take a break from posting. I still wrote a few posts during break to add to the backlog. Since this post is about St. Patricks Day, it goes first.
Thursday night, around 3 in the morning, the fire alarm goes off. Goddamnit. I was just getting into my movie. I didn't think too much of it, because it was Saint Patrick's Day, and I figured that some drunken hooligan (i.e. my roommate) reveled a bit too much in their Irishness and that some crazy shenanigans ensued. I guessed someone had just pulled the alarm, or were smoking indoors, but then again, last year my roommate accidentally set off the fire alarm just by burning popcorn, so some drunken cooking could also have been the culprit. Blech. I put on my slippers (which are basically clogs) and a jacket and made my way down the hall towards the stairs when I noticed that smoke was seeping out from the crack at the bottom of the doorway.
Well shit. Some drunks had started a fire, for real. How unacceptable. I made for the backstairwell, and joined the queue of drunks trying to make their way out of the building. Very interesting, but hard to describe.
And cold. Have you forgotten that I live in Wisconsin? It was snowing out at the time, but the temperature was hovering somewhere around 32*, so the streets and sidewalks were covered in this big slushie mess when we made our way outside and into the street.
I spy my friend Teegs, whose birthday it was (or rather would be as soon as she woke up the next morning--at 3 am, the differences between the previous day and the next day are tentative at best.) The point was, her birthday was Friday. Teegs was barefoot.
"BOB I'M COLD!"
"Why aren't you wearing shoes, my dear?"
"I was in the elevator, and then the fire alarm went off and I could go back upstairs because people were coming down." There's nothing like being caught in an elevator during a fire to sober you up. Teegs was halfway there, and halfway gone.
"Oh come here."
And in some miraculous boost of chivalry, I offered her my clogs, which she wouldn't accept. I offered her my jacket, which she wouldn't accept. Even when I told her it was her birthday present, she wouldn't accept. Eventually, after much debating, we came to compromise. I would give her one slipper, and I would wear the other.
She being drunk, she had trouble standing on one foot, and so I on one foot and Teegs on one foot linked arms and made like flamingos in winter jackets, each perched on one foot, trying to stand up and not fall over. Or rather, have Teegs not fall over in the slush puddles, which were getting too deep for my slippers to do any good.
"BOB THE FIRETRUCKS!" Teegs suddenly realized that the sirens blaring and the flashing lights were headed towards us, though we were on the curb across the street from our building. "C'MON" With that, she grabbed onto my waist and started hopping up the driveway and towards the parking lot across the street.
She didn't notify me that we were moving across the street, and I fell. Hard. Right on my elbow. It smarted tons. TONS.
Turns out, the elevator circuits caught on fire. Lucky Teegs made it out just in time, though she did freak out royally when she found out.
Long story short, my left elbow hurts something fierce. There's a nasty bruise and everything. I'm right handed, so I can still do most things, but I can't extend my left arm all the way. I also can't bend it less than a 60* angle. It doesn't hurt too much if it's inbetween, but the extremes hurt like a mother.
And so, for most of Spring Break, I kept my left arm clenched and up towards the middle of my chest, in some sort of Bob Dole impersonation. Unfortunately, I forgot to keep my hand in a fist on more than one occasion, and walked around with THE MOST exaggerated limp wrist I've ever seen on a person. When I walked past a mirror, even I wanted to punch me in the face. It was not a fun way to spend spring break.
(PS-The arm is better now, though it still smarts sometimes.)
March 25, 2005
it's midnight, Cinderella
So, another Friday is upon us, and Bob will soon be returning to the liberal bastion of Wisconsin from the burial place of Ann Coulter's hero. So have hope: the quality of blogging will return to normal shortly.
Since this will likely be my last blog entry ever, I'm breaking all Bob's unwritten rules. For example, using lyrics from a country song for the title of this post. Also, posting the results of a silly online quiz:
Brought to you by Pushing Through
And finally...what you've been waiting for, a picture of Bob in drag (for posterity's sake):
EDIT: Sorry, kiddies. Bob here, pulling rank and pulling the pic of me down. Homie's not playing that game. I'll start posting again on Monday, so try not to miss me too much.
Since this will likely be my last blog entry ever, I'm breaking all Bob's unwritten rules. For example, using lyrics from a country song for the title of this post. Also, posting the results of a silly online quiz:
I'm a Fabulous Faggot! I’m the epitome of over the top breathtakingly extravagant faggot chic. I dance like a big queer demon, although I am more concerned about being seen than actually enjoying myself. I probably wear feathers. Jesus Christ.
What kind of Faggot are you?Brought to you by Pushing Through
And finally...what you've been waiting for, a picture of Bob in drag (for posterity's sake):
EDIT: Sorry, kiddies. Bob here, pulling rank and pulling the pic of me down. Homie's not playing that game. I'll start posting again on Monday, so try not to miss me too much.
March 24, 2005
the Sun King
I visited Versailles a few years ago expecting it to be glamorous and beautiful. By the third or fourth gold-and-crystal adorned room, I was actually repulsed by the gaudiness and decadence of it all... One thing I could relate to, however, was the commissioning of an artist to paint portraits of me.
I don't think there is anything more flattering than to be the subject of someone else's art, especially when you don't have to pay them to create it. One of my favorite memories from high school was the time a straight guy I liked wrote a song about me and put it on a CD he produced. (Long story short: he couldn't tell from my secret admirer valentine that I was a boy.)
Paul would be unbelievably embarrassed that I'm sharing this with you, so don't spill the beans. Oh, and his new group really is pretty good and lots of fun to see perform in a bar atmosphere...you should check them out if you get the chance.
Bob also wrote a few poems for/about/whatever me, which is the real motive for this post: to share one with you...
the stupid poem
this is, by far, the stupidest poem I've ever written
it's so clichéd, and it reeks of effort
the metaphors are mixed
& the emotions are fixed
& the rhyme scheme leaves nothing to be desired.
all I did was try to write a poem about you
with a stanza about your laughter
and a quip of two about your smile
with a beautiful opening line that drew the reader in
and got their attention.
but: the meter got redundant
and my thesaurus has only so many synonyms
for words like love & perfection and adorable
and treasure
the words got all jumbled up in my head
before I had a chance to write them down
and every memory sent me into a day dream
so I got distracted and couldn't think of a good closing
and it never seemed quite right to end w/ ellipsis dots...
...
...
I don't think there is anything more flattering than to be the subject of someone else's art, especially when you don't have to pay them to create it. One of my favorite memories from high school was the time a straight guy I liked wrote a song about me and put it on a CD he produced. (Long story short: he couldn't tell from my secret admirer valentine that I was a boy.)
Paul would be unbelievably embarrassed that I'm sharing this with you, so don't spill the beans. Oh, and his new group really is pretty good and lots of fun to see perform in a bar atmosphere...you should check them out if you get the chance.
Bob also wrote a few poems for/about/whatever me, which is the real motive for this post: to share one with you...
the stupid poem
this is, by far, the stupidest poem I've ever written
it's so clichéd, and it reeks of effort
the metaphors are mixed
& the emotions are fixed
& the rhyme scheme leaves nothing to be desired.
all I did was try to write a poem about you
with a stanza about your laughter
and a quip of two about your smile
with a beautiful opening line that drew the reader in
and got their attention.
but: the meter got redundant
and my thesaurus has only so many synonyms
for words like love & perfection and adorable
and treasure
the words got all jumbled up in my head
before I had a chance to write them down
and every memory sent me into a day dream
so I got distracted and couldn't think of a good closing
and it never seemed quite right to end w/ ellipsis dots...
...
...
March 23, 2005
here comes Peter Cottontail
It has been subtly suggested that I publish my name, so there it is, right in the header: Peter. Which, I might add, is a horrible name for a child, considering all the stupid rhymes and jokes that can be made for it (especially if your middle name also happens to be Richard). As a teenager living at home, my name was always Exhibit A in the stack of evidence that my parents hated me.
Speaking of them, earlier today I had to break the news to my mom that I wouldn't be hopping back to their house for Easter. Coming out was surprisingly easy compared to telling them I'm agnostic and don't feel comfortable around them on religious holidays when they get all Jesus Freak-y on me. It's bad enough I have to listen to goddamn James Dobson's daily radio dispatches when I'm home for Christmas.
Somehow, I always have more fun amusing myself on Easter anyway. In college, my roommate's family visited us every year and we'd do the church thing together, the dinner thing together, and then the porn shop thing together. Nothing makes a former Dutch Reformed kid feel quite as dirty as playing with dildos with his best friend's sister on a holy day.
The year after he graduated I had nobody to accompany me to the porn shop, and going to look at straight porn alone just didn't sound like fun at all. So I made Jello shots in plastic Easter eggs, hid them around the house, and invited a bunch of friends over for an Easter egg hunt.
Jesus must be rolling over in his grave.
Speaking of them, earlier today I had to break the news to my mom that I wouldn't be hopping back to their house for Easter. Coming out was surprisingly easy compared to telling them I'm agnostic and don't feel comfortable around them on religious holidays when they get all Jesus Freak-y on me. It's bad enough I have to listen to goddamn James Dobson's daily radio dispatches when I'm home for Christmas.
Somehow, I always have more fun amusing myself on Easter anyway. In college, my roommate's family visited us every year and we'd do the church thing together, the dinner thing together, and then the porn shop thing together. Nothing makes a former Dutch Reformed kid feel quite as dirty as playing with dildos with his best friend's sister on a holy day.
The year after he graduated I had nobody to accompany me to the porn shop, and going to look at straight porn alone just didn't sound like fun at all. So I made Jello shots in plastic Easter eggs, hid them around the house, and invited a bunch of friends over for an Easter egg hunt.
Jesus must be rolling over in his grave.
making friends at work
I hate the idea of defacing this blog with a single word about Terri Schiavo, but I just can't help myself! And anyway...it's not my blog, so who cares? I just wanted to point out two things about this whole fiasco that you might not have considered, since they probably haven't been on CNN's news ticker.
First, her surname is an Italian word meaning "slave" which seems fitting in light of recent events in Washington. Second, as I mentioned to several shocked and appalled coworkers on our lunch break tonight, it's ironic that the root cause of her brain damage was bulimia, and now her parents are fighting to force more food down her throat.
Is that insensitive to point out?
First, her surname is an Italian word meaning "slave" which seems fitting in light of recent events in Washington. Second, as I mentioned to several shocked and appalled coworkers on our lunch break tonight, it's ironic that the root cause of her brain damage was bulimia, and now her parents are fighting to force more food down her throat.
Is that insensitive to point out?
March 22, 2005
metamorphoses
I so wish I had a digital camera. One of my good friends gave me a piece of art last week that is just too cool. She's in this life-drawing class and never knows what to do with her dyke-y self on Tuesdays when they have male models. So I suggested that she do her best and give the final product to me; I don't mind having naked men on my walls. Well, the end result made me laugh (once she had exited my apartment). I love it, but it's very obvious that it was created by someone who is uncomfortable being in the same room with a naked man. The poor guy actually appears to have tits, his nipples are HUGE, and his penis is hot pink. When my friend the classicist saw it, he proclaimed in a delightful Mississippi accent, "oh my Lord, it's Hermaphroditus!" (Who was a total bottom, by the way...always ass-up on a bed.) Still, I think the best part about the piece is that she affixed more than 50 flashy, colorful rhinestones to accentuate curves and shadows. Ever since she read Running With Scissors, she's been amused by my fascination with shiny objects.
March 21, 2005
stealing my thunder
Although Bob's guest-blogger announcement on Friday likely had you loyal readers in rapt anticipation throughout the weekend (yeahright), I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't have the opportunity to come out myself at the end of my first rawyouth post ever. With the surprise out of the way, however, I can get right to the business at hand -- posting half-naked pictures of your usual host in slutty makeup, followed by lots and lots of online quiz results.
just kidding.
I was watching the L Word last night and one scene from the show perfectly captured my weekend. If you enjoy that addictive bit of lesbian drama, you know that Alice, the cute bisexual one of the bunch, keeps a big whiteboard in her living room to graphically depict the so-called "Six Degrees of Any Lesbian." It's basically a big web of names that she constantly updates with lines connecting individuals to one another "...through love, through loneliness, through one tiny lamentable lapse in judgment." From a distance it reminds me of a star chart, a map of the galaxies in our universe.
In my universe, which awkwardly seems to consist of no more than three degrees, last Friday was the Big Crunch. Five friends from my various past-lives around the midwest (two of whom are former boyfriends of mine) carpooled south and converged on my new apartment for a weekend for fun and frolic. Sounds lovely, huh? Now, it's not as though these people haven't met each other before, but it still made me nervous to think that they would all be here at once. You see, I really don't like to think of the web, and I certainly wouldn't hang it up in my den. I do enjoy mixing my old friends with the new ones, though, just to see the results. Somehow, things always go smoothly. And by "somehow," I mean, "With a little alcohol." [Except that one time when Bob and I unexpectedly ran into this guy Justin who was part of a threesome with me 550 miles away, but we were at a high school and there was no alcohol in sight.]
Now that my friends are all back at their respective homes, I have decided that the most miraculous thing about the weekend was not that we all had fun together, but that we actually found ways to entertain ourselves for three days in this god-awful state.
just kidding.
I was watching the L Word last night and one scene from the show perfectly captured my weekend. If you enjoy that addictive bit of lesbian drama, you know that Alice, the cute bisexual one of the bunch, keeps a big whiteboard in her living room to graphically depict the so-called "Six Degrees of Any Lesbian." It's basically a big web of names that she constantly updates with lines connecting individuals to one another "...through love, through loneliness, through one tiny lamentable lapse in judgment." From a distance it reminds me of a star chart, a map of the galaxies in our universe.
In my universe, which awkwardly seems to consist of no more than three degrees, last Friday was the Big Crunch. Five friends from my various past-lives around the midwest (two of whom are former boyfriends of mine) carpooled south and converged on my new apartment for a weekend for fun and frolic. Sounds lovely, huh? Now, it's not as though these people haven't met each other before, but it still made me nervous to think that they would all be here at once. You see, I really don't like to think of the web, and I certainly wouldn't hang it up in my den. I do enjoy mixing my old friends with the new ones, though, just to see the results. Somehow, things always go smoothly. And by "somehow," I mean, "With a little alcohol." [Except that one time when Bob and I unexpectedly ran into this guy Justin who was part of a threesome with me 550 miles away, but we were at a high school and there was no alcohol in sight.]
Now that my friends are all back at their respective homes, I have decided that the most miraculous thing about the weekend was not that we all had fun together, but that we actually found ways to entertain ourselves for three days in this god-awful state.
March 18, 2005
I'm not a homo, but my (ex)boyfriend sure is.
In a move that is either pure genius on my part or the stupidest thing I've ever done, I've asked the exboyfriend to guest-blog for me next week while I'm on Spring Break. I'm just going home for break, and I'm doubting that anything interesting will happen.
So if you want all the juicy, juicy details about me from someone who's seen me naked, seen me cry, seen me in full makeup, seen me shoot four loads in a row, and seen me flirt with the girls at Hooters (though not at the same time), make sure to stop by next week.
He's a little nervous, so you guys have to promise to be gentle.
Oh, and Kevin? No biting. He's not into that sort of thing, or at least he wasn't the last time I checked.
So if you want all the juicy, juicy details about me from someone who's seen me naked, seen me cry, seen me in full makeup, seen me shoot four loads in a row, and seen me flirt with the girls at Hooters (though not at the same time), make sure to stop by next week.
He's a little nervous, so you guys have to promise to be gentle.
Oh, and Kevin? No biting. He's not into that sort of thing, or at least he wasn't the last time I checked.
March 17, 2005
Red State/Blue State
You'll have to forgive me for the political pontification. I know that it was in vogue to post pseudo-political posts months ago, but this is an idea that I've been mulling over for the past few days, and I want to flesh it out.
The Seven Deadly Sins are out of date. These theological vices don't have the same negative qualities as they once did. People are now supposed to take pride in their work, gluttony is all the rage, lust equals great ratings, anger is healthy, greed is inspiration, sloth is every single invention in the past fifty years, envy is why we have magazines and lifestyles of the rich and famous tv shows. These vices come from hundreds of years ago and hold deep roots in Christian values.
Philosopher Judith Shklar argues that the new vices are cruelty, hypocrisy, snobbery, betrayal, and misanthropy. Cruelty is at the heart of lots of other crimes, like rape and murder, hypocritics are annoying, betrayal is low, no one likes a snob, and you have to at least pretend to like mankind.
Do you get where I'm going with this? Red states, the more religious of the bunch, care more about ancient Christian values that don't hold the same oomph as they once did. That's why Clinton had his scandals, why white trash delight in cheap tabloids, why everyone's overweight, why people cling to the concept that America is the best, and the rest of the world is the worst.
In contrast, Blue states, the more secular, care less about the vices with religious overtones and more about the new vices. That's why blue states dislike Bush so much. Cruelty? There was that whole torture thing. Hypocrisy? Check. Snobbery? Check. Betrayal? Maybe. Misanthropy? Bush must hate the world. How else could you explain everything that he's done to fuck up the world?
Am I making sense here? Spring break starts for me ubersoon, and plus it's St Patricks day, so I'm mostly just skimming over this theory, but does it hold water?
The Seven Deadly Sins are out of date. These theological vices don't have the same negative qualities as they once did. People are now supposed to take pride in their work, gluttony is all the rage, lust equals great ratings, anger is healthy, greed is inspiration, sloth is every single invention in the past fifty years, envy is why we have magazines and lifestyles of the rich and famous tv shows. These vices come from hundreds of years ago and hold deep roots in Christian values.
Philosopher Judith Shklar argues that the new vices are cruelty, hypocrisy, snobbery, betrayal, and misanthropy. Cruelty is at the heart of lots of other crimes, like rape and murder, hypocritics are annoying, betrayal is low, no one likes a snob, and you have to at least pretend to like mankind.
Do you get where I'm going with this? Red states, the more religious of the bunch, care more about ancient Christian values that don't hold the same oomph as they once did. That's why Clinton had his scandals, why white trash delight in cheap tabloids, why everyone's overweight, why people cling to the concept that America is the best, and the rest of the world is the worst.
In contrast, Blue states, the more secular, care less about the vices with religious overtones and more about the new vices. That's why blue states dislike Bush so much. Cruelty? There was that whole torture thing. Hypocrisy? Check. Snobbery? Check. Betrayal? Maybe. Misanthropy? Bush must hate the world. How else could you explain everything that he's done to fuck up the world?
Am I making sense here? Spring break starts for me ubersoon, and plus it's St Patricks day, so I'm mostly just skimming over this theory, but does it hold water?
One last thing
There's one more thing that I haven't mentioned about Allyce (10/22/86-03/11/05). This will probably be the last I blog about her. Hell, I might post something else this afternoon; I don't think she'd like so much talk about her.
I had mentioned that her life was finally going well, and that she was in the midst of her first love and that they were celebrating their five month anniversary. Well, I don't think I mentioned that he was in the car with her, and he died also. They were both sitting in the back seat, next to each other.
I know that having a large truck run over your car like something out of a monster truck rally is a terrible way to die, but there's something to be said about dying in the arms of your first love. There's something sweet and romantic about dying in your first boyfriend's arms. It reminds me of my favorite song, which I'm posting below.
There is a Light that never goes out (MP3) by the Smiths
This in no way makes her death any more acceptable, but it does make it less terrible, that she went gently into that good night in the arms of the one she loved.
I had mentioned that her life was finally going well, and that she was in the midst of her first love and that they were celebrating their five month anniversary. Well, I don't think I mentioned that he was in the car with her, and he died also. They were both sitting in the back seat, next to each other.
I know that having a large truck run over your car like something out of a monster truck rally is a terrible way to die, but there's something to be said about dying in the arms of your first love. There's something sweet and romantic about dying in your first boyfriend's arms. It reminds me of my favorite song, which I'm posting below.
There is a Light that never goes out (MP3) by the Smiths
This in no way makes her death any more acceptable, but it does make it less terrible, that she went gently into that good night in the arms of the one she loved.
March 16, 2005
Sestina: Bob
In a blatant attempt at a shift of topic, I'm posting one of my favorite poems. It's a sestina of sorts, where every line ends with my first name. It's by Jonah Winter, and I find this poem hilarious, especially when read aloud.
According to her housemate, she is out with Bob
tonight, and when she’s out with Bob
you never know when she’ll get in. Bob
is an English professor. Bob
used to be in a motorcycle gang, or something, or maybe Bob
rides a motorcycle now. How radical of you, Bob—
I wish I could ride a motorcycle, Bob,
and also talk about Chaucer intelligently. Bob
is very tall, bearded, reserved. I saw Bob
at a poetry reading last week—he had such a Bob-
like poise—so quintessentially Bob!
The leather jacket, the granny glasses, the beard—Bob!
and you were with my ex-girlfriend, Bob!
And you’re a professor, and I’m nobody, Bob,
nobody, just a flower-deliverer, Bob,
and a skinny one at that, Bob—
and you are a large person, and I am small, Bob,
and I hate my legs, Bob,
but why am I talking to you as if you were here, Bob?
I’ll try to be more objective. Bob
is probably a nice guy. Or that’s what one hears. Bob
is not, however, the most passionate person named Bob
you’ll ever meet. Quiet, polite, succinct, Bob
opens doors for people, is reticent in grocery stores. Bob
does not talk about himself excessively to girlfriends. Bob
does not have a drinking problem. Bob
does not worry about his body, even though he’s a little heavy. Bob
has never been in therapy. Bob,
also, though, does not have tenure—ha ha ha—and Bob
cannot cook as well as I can. Bob
never even heard of paella, and if he had, Bob
would not have changed his facial expression at all. Bob
is just so boring, and what I can’t understand, Bob—
yes I’m talking to you again, is why you, Bob,
could be more desirable than me. Granted, Bob,
you’re more stable, you’re older, more mature maybe but Bob . . .
(Months later, on the Bob-front: My former girlfriend finally married Bob.
Of Bob, she says, “No one has taken me higher or lower than Bob.”
Me? On a dark and stormy sea of Bob-thoughts, desperately, I bob.)
Sestina: Bob
According to her housemate, she is out with Bob
tonight, and when she’s out with Bob
you never know when she’ll get in. Bob
is an English professor. Bob
used to be in a motorcycle gang, or something, or maybe Bob
rides a motorcycle now. How radical of you, Bob—
I wish I could ride a motorcycle, Bob,
and also talk about Chaucer intelligently. Bob
is very tall, bearded, reserved. I saw Bob
at a poetry reading last week—he had such a Bob-
like poise—so quintessentially Bob!
The leather jacket, the granny glasses, the beard—Bob!
and you were with my ex-girlfriend, Bob!
And you’re a professor, and I’m nobody, Bob,
nobody, just a flower-deliverer, Bob,
and a skinny one at that, Bob—
and you are a large person, and I am small, Bob,
and I hate my legs, Bob,
but why am I talking to you as if you were here, Bob?
I’ll try to be more objective. Bob
is probably a nice guy. Or that’s what one hears. Bob
is not, however, the most passionate person named Bob
you’ll ever meet. Quiet, polite, succinct, Bob
opens doors for people, is reticent in grocery stores. Bob
does not talk about himself excessively to girlfriends. Bob
does not have a drinking problem. Bob
does not worry about his body, even though he’s a little heavy. Bob
has never been in therapy. Bob,
also, though, does not have tenure—ha ha ha—and Bob
cannot cook as well as I can. Bob
never even heard of paella, and if he had, Bob
would not have changed his facial expression at all. Bob
is just so boring, and what I can’t understand, Bob—
yes I’m talking to you again, is why you, Bob,
could be more desirable than me. Granted, Bob,
you’re more stable, you’re older, more mature maybe but Bob . . .
(Months later, on the Bob-front: My former girlfriend finally married Bob.
Of Bob, she says, “No one has taken me higher or lower than Bob.”
Me? On a dark and stormy sea of Bob-thoughts, desperately, I bob.)
March 15, 2005
Allyce's last words
I am crying in a corner, since I didn't recieve Herpes for Veneral Disease day. Thats was the worst day of my life.
Don't you guys care at all?!
Anyways, I did get a couple valentines for Valentines day though. Even though I didn't celebrate the day, its nice to know some people like shoving happiness down my throat for good measure. Just like fish oil. Disgusting, but good for you :3
That was the last post written in Allyce's lj. She may not have updated often, but she read and commented often.
I thought about posting the link to her blog yesterday, but decided against it. Somehow, her livejournal didn't really fit her. Which, of course, brings up the question whether anyone's blog really describes who they are in real life. I'm sure I'll ponder over that later.
It's awkward going through and reading her journal. I stopped when I came upon the following in an online survey meme she did.
51. Burial or cremation?
Personally, I hope somebody will be smart and sell my dead ass to a science lab.
Yeah, that hit a bit too close to home.
I'm not really sure where I'm going with this. I'm ending this post with selections from that survey. She can describe herself. Wittly.
12. Who should play you in a movie about your life?
Kermit the frog would be perfect. I even sent him the script.
23. Do you like yourself and believe in yourself?
I slit my wrists every morning
..... To realise I can't bleed because I'm a fucking god.
24. Do transient, homeless, or starving people sometimes annoy you?
God, all the time, lol. Seriously, don't you have any compassion? Go serve a salvation army and ask me that question again.
27. What is your ideal marriage location?
In a robot church, with a robot pastor, and a swinging jazz playing robot at the piano.
29. Favorite fabric?
Human flesh.
34. How do you eat an apple?
I shove it in my food processer, then dump it out. Because robots don't eat bitch.
36. Do you drive stick?
... Just stick it in my face that I can't drive yet!
40. Most frivolous purchase?
My sea captain hat. I hope to spend even more on my next hat.
42. Favorite writing instrument?
Pencils, and blood.
46. Do you prefer to stand out or blend in?
Depends on whether I'm going to be shot.
47. Would you ever go out dressed like the opposite sex?
I do almost every day, so I've been told....
49. What's one car you will never buy?
A tricycle.
56. What kind of first impression do you think you give to people?
Either really quiet/shy, quiet/arrogant, or fucking nuts.
57. What's one thing you like to do alone?
Almost everything. I don't like sharing myself.
63. Do you have problems changing clothes in front of friends?
Yeah, especially when getting into swimwear and the undergarments fly. I can't control my hotness at that level.
She will be missed.
March 14, 2005
SEE YOU SPACE COWGIRL,
SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE...
One of my best friends from high school died this weekend.
I don't really know what to say. She was the kind of person who found emotion awkward; if she couldn't make you feel better with a happy dance or a jocular rib, she felt out of place. I'm sure she hates reading her friend's LJs now, but then again, she'd also make a comment about how "what am i? Chopped liver?" or something along those lines if attention wasn't paid. And attention must be paid. It's a difficult line.
I'm posting a song I think she'd like. She was more of a JPop, bouncy techno sort of person, but she liked some raucaus angry chick rock, too. This song is a ballad by Bikini Kill, the founders of the riot grrrl movement in the early nineties. It's the song Kathleen Hanna wrote when her best friend from high school died. I think it's somewhat fitting.
RIP.mp3 (Rest in Pissedoff-ed ness)
RIP Allyce
(See you SpaceCowgirl
Sometime, Somewhere)
Three teenagers were killed Friday night when the car they were in went out of control on a snow-covered highway in Waushara County and collided head-on with another vehicle.This comes from a small town newspaper, and so the facts aren't the greatest. I have friends who went to the hospital (they were too late) and they found out that 'collided' is the wrong word to use. The "other vehicle" was a semi. They were driving a little hatchback. This was a death that rapists and child molesters deserve.
“This accident was most definitely weather-related,” he said. “The weather conditions were terrible. We had a complete whiteout and several inches of snow and the plows were not out yet.”I didn't know the driver nor anyone else in the car, but that sounds about right. She was, at heart, a happy, effervescent person. She dressed up as Ed from Cowboy Bebop. She was always the little kid sister whom we'd harass, whose hat we'd steal, whose sexuality we'd mock--I mean, who's straight in a performing arts school?
For the first time ever in her life, I believe she was content with anything and everything. She was doing what she wanted to do with life, things were looking good in her future, she was in a wonderfully awesome relationship with a guy she loved, and good times were had all around. (via a friend's LJ)She was nearing the five month mark with her first real boyfriend. She went to a community college, but she was happy about it. She got a job at the airport, and finally had enough cash to move out of her parent's house. She had gotten accepted to an Art Institute the week earlier, and people think that she was on her way to celebrate with some friends she had up north.
I don't really know what to say. She was the kind of person who found emotion awkward; if she couldn't make you feel better with a happy dance or a jocular rib, she felt out of place. I'm sure she hates reading her friend's LJs now, but then again, she'd also make a comment about how "what am i? Chopped liver?" or something along those lines if attention wasn't paid. And attention must be paid. It's a difficult line.
I'm posting a song I think she'd like. She was more of a JPop, bouncy techno sort of person, but she liked some raucaus angry chick rock, too. This song is a ballad by Bikini Kill, the founders of the riot grrrl movement in the early nineties. It's the song Kathleen Hanna wrote when her best friend from high school died. I think it's somewhat fitting.
RIP.mp3 (Rest in Pissedoff-ed ness)
I can't say everything about it
In just one single song
I can't put how I feel in a package
And sell it back to everyone
But wait
There's another boy genius whose fucking gone
I hope the food tastes better in heaven
I know there's lots of rad queer boys up there
I hope everytime they talk to you
They know that they're lucky to be your friend
Cuz look
There's another boy genius whose fucking gone
And I wouldn't be so fucking mad so fucking
Pissed off if it wasn't so fucking wrong
It's all fucking wrong
It's not fair- It's not fair
It's not fair
But no one said life was easy
Yeah, but no one said-no one said that
Nothings supposed to happen, right?
No, no one told me anything
To prepare me for fucking this
There's another boy genius whose fucking gone
Don't tell me it don't matter
Don't tell me it don't matter
Don't tell me I've had three days to get over it
It won't go away
It just won't go away
RIP Allyce
(See you SpaceCowgirl
Sometime, Somewhere)
March 11, 2005
Gee.
You are a dweller in the Vast Closet of Historical
Experience. Maybe you're an early modern
English sailor, or a civil war vet who fell in
love with your bunkmate, or some poor sodomite
in the middle ages who got burnt with a bundle
of sticks called a "faggot." At any
rate, unless you lived in a mollyhouse, your
homosexual inclinations were a secret you had
to keep to stay alive.
What kind of gay male atavism are you?
March 10, 2005
These are all direct quotes, by the way.
The assignment I posted the other day was part of a series of "poems for young girls who have considered anorexia when dieting just ain't enuff." The second poem in the series is called "Whitney in Primetime," and is composed of direct quotations (the repetitions and 'you knows' are verbatim, as unbelievable as that may sound) from Whitney Houston's Primetime Special with Diane Sawyer. I have absolutely no idea how the formatting will work out, and I'm far too lazy to mess with it, so use your imagination if it turns out ugly.
Whitney In Primetime
My business is sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll. You know?
I mean, my friends, we have a good time. You know?
It was rough. It was rough.
And I said, well I'm just gonna party. You know?
It was kind of a rebel in me. You know?
I'm not sick.
I am not sick.
Let's get that straight.
I'm not sick. Okay?
I've always been a thin girl.
I'm not going to be fat, ever.
Let's get that straight.
Whitney is not going to be fat, ever. Okay?
This is my time, now. You know? Love me or leave me.
But you better love me. Love me. Love me. Love me?
March 9, 2005
Sssshh....
On the second floor, near the computer lab, there's a bulletin board with grainy pictures of local events featuring residents. There are a few pics from Kites on Ice, some from the Polar Plunge, some from local sports events, and other similar stuff. Fortunately, I'm not interested in anything community-enhancing or anything, and so I haven't been on this board yet.
Until the bastards took a picture of me at the Tons of Fun party, where the roommate and I serenaded the dorm with an acoustic ballad of "Achy Breaky Heart." Now my face has been added to the wall.
I don't think I would mind nearly as much if it wasn't one of the worst pictures ever taken. To begin with, it's not even an actual photograph, but rather a black and white photocopy of the picture. It's taken from below, so you can see up my nose a little bit, my eyes are closed, and my neck appears to be at an impossible angle. Somehow, my chin is past my shoulder. I don't know how that picture is possible, but it is, and worse yet, you can totally tell that it's me.
Now here's my dark, dirty little secret:
I really, really want to take a black marker and X out my face and write FAG next to it.
I have no idea why. I mean, I'd love to watch people's reactions, and see how terrible I can make people feel, but there's got to be a better reason. My desire to make people feel awkward about a potential bigot in the midst is great, mind you, but not enough for me to be so obsessed with finding a Sharpie.
I'm generally not a self-hating faggot. Sure, as a group I find gay kids my age faggy and shallow, but then again, I hate everyone in a group: girls menstruate over everything, jocks are stupid, women can't do anything right, men are pigs, old gay guys who want to give me massages are creepy, etc etc.
Maybe I just want to draw attention to myself; this is all a cry for help. Maybe it's part of an unconscious critique of how butch/femme I am. Maybe I think everyone's getting too complacent and heterogeneous and as a minority I want to backhandedly draw attention to something or another.
Or maybe I just think it'd be funny. I don't know.
Until the bastards took a picture of me at the Tons of Fun party, where the roommate and I serenaded the dorm with an acoustic ballad of "Achy Breaky Heart." Now my face has been added to the wall.
I don't think I would mind nearly as much if it wasn't one of the worst pictures ever taken. To begin with, it's not even an actual photograph, but rather a black and white photocopy of the picture. It's taken from below, so you can see up my nose a little bit, my eyes are closed, and my neck appears to be at an impossible angle. Somehow, my chin is past my shoulder. I don't know how that picture is possible, but it is, and worse yet, you can totally tell that it's me.
Now here's my dark, dirty little secret:
I really, really want to take a black marker and X out my face and write FAG next to it.
I have no idea why. I mean, I'd love to watch people's reactions, and see how terrible I can make people feel, but there's got to be a better reason. My desire to make people feel awkward about a potential bigot in the midst is great, mind you, but not enough for me to be so obsessed with finding a Sharpie.
I'm generally not a self-hating faggot. Sure, as a group I find gay kids my age faggy and shallow, but then again, I hate everyone in a group: girls menstruate over everything, jocks are stupid, women can't do anything right, men are pigs, old gay guys who want to give me massages are creepy, etc etc.
Maybe I just want to draw attention to myself; this is all a cry for help. Maybe it's part of an unconscious critique of how butch/femme I am. Maybe I think everyone's getting too complacent and heterogeneous and as a minority I want to backhandedly draw attention to something or another.
Or maybe I just think it'd be funny. I don't know.
March 8, 2005
Apologies to Frank O'Hara
Good writers borrow, and great writers steal. Which is why for my assignment for poetry class (poetry inspired by a newspaper headline or CNN crawl) I pilfered this idea from chrisafer.
MARY-KATE has collapsed!
Mary-Kate has collapsed!
I was flipping through the stations
MTV was boring VH1 was boring
and you said to try E! even
though E! is on parental block
because of Howard Stern
late at night but I knew
the code I had figured it out
when they did the special on
Prince Harry who is so dreamy
and suddenly I catch the crawl
MARY-KATE HAS COLLAPSED!
She was looking so thin at the premiere!
She was looking so thin on Oprah!
I’ll go without lunch some
times because I want the boys
to notice me but I’ve never collapsed
Oh Mary-Kate I love you
Why won’t you get fat?
March 7, 2005
I'm an extraordinary machine
For those of you who wandered outside this weekend and took advantage of the lovely weather, good for you. It was prime 'fratboys playing shirtless frisbee' weather on Sunday, which is one of my favorite times of the year.
Since you spent your weekend outside, far away from the hustle and bustle of the internet, you're probably unaware that the entire new Fiona Apple cd has been leaked. Even though some tracks still obviously need more mixing, it's still Fiona's album, which Sony Music has refused to release, claiming its not 'catchy' enough. Bitches.
Since you spent your weekend outside, far away from the hustle and bustle of the internet, you're probably unaware that the entire new Fiona Apple cd has been leaked. Even though some tracks still obviously need more mixing, it's still Fiona's album, which Sony Music has refused to release, claiming its not 'catchy' enough. Bitches.
March 4, 2005
OOOOHHHH SNAP!
Her: Ladies first!
Me: Bitch, I'm a queen. I'm pretty sure I outrank you.
In honor of midterms, I'm posting a little funk ditty. Don't worry about bandwidth; if this stupid school is making me work, they're at least going to host things to eat up bandwidth. Bitches. Making me write a paper on Thursday night when everyone else is out getting drunk is just plain cruel. I don't need this.
I Don't Need This Pressure On (Chant Number One) by Spandau Ballet. (lyrics)
Me: Bitch, I'm a queen. I'm pretty sure I outrank you.
In honor of midterms, I'm posting a little funk ditty. Don't worry about bandwidth; if this stupid school is making me work, they're at least going to host things to eat up bandwidth. Bitches. Making me write a paper on Thursday night when everyone else is out getting drunk is just plain cruel. I don't need this.
I Don't Need This Pressure On (Chant Number One) by Spandau Ballet. (lyrics)
March 3, 2005
I'm strangely intrigued
Speaking of online personals--
Yes, that's right. Everyone's third least-favorite closed-minded pundit (behind Coulter and O'Reilly) started his own dating service on his website. It's fun to scroll through the pictures and see how ugly conservatives really are, on the inside and out.
You can't search, and I'm willing to bet that homos aren't allowed. But still, it's a welcome relief from trolling gay.com night after night.
Welcome to Hannidate 2005, where you may find your perfect match through Hannity style romance. Be sure to click on each icon to see a full size picture and full description.
Yes, that's right. Everyone's third least-favorite closed-minded pundit (behind Coulter and O'Reilly) started his own dating service on his website. It's fun to scroll through the pictures and see how ugly conservatives really are, on the inside and out.
You can't search, and I'm willing to bet that homos aren't allowed. But still, it's a welcome relief from trolling gay.com night after night.
March 2, 2005
Sure to be updated at some point.
Pet peeves about online dating:
Things I enjoy about online dating:
Messages wishing me good luck. I don't want luck, I want ass. Or a date.
The obnoxious amount of 50 year old overweight men who want to give me a sensuous massage.
People not looking for hookups whose usernames are along the lines of "CumBottomBoi" or "SexyUWHookupStud84"
Premium memberships are too expensive for college students.
I feel guiltier when my roommate sees me trolling personal ads than when he catches me skimming chris geary.
None of the cute ones are responding.
Things I enjoy about online dating:
I did meet my (now ex) boyfriend on xy.com
Finding out which kids from high school are now out of the closet
Closeted kids from high school who are now named CumBucketBoi4U.
The fact that the ex is on gay.com about as much as I am.
March 1, 2005
He's not bad-looking, either.
Even though I'm the only one of my friends who didn't like Garden State, I find that after watching that movie and reading his blog, I like his show a hell of a lot more. I have absolutely no idea why.
Just to get people talking.
I have a habit, in real life, of saying really offensive things just to spur debate and shock people. A lot of it revolves around making misogynistic comments, but that's mostly because there are a lot of stupid women in the building. See, if this were in real life, I might say something like 'stupid women? Isn't that redundant?' I think what I'm going to say is offensive, I don't really know. I'm bad at judging these sort of things.
I was assuming that there'd be more talk about the Oscars. I mean, you're all faggots who read this, right?
I didn't actually watch all of the Oscars; I spent part of Sunday night rocking out, in case you've forgotten. I caught a part where Chris Rock was doing some sort of comedy bit (I don't find Chris Rock all that funny, to tell the truth) where he went to a movie theatre and asked the common man, i.e. black people, whether or not they've seen the movies nominated.
And the only thing that I could think of to say was "Wow. Black people have absolutely no taste."
That's pretty racist of me to say, right? I mean, I live in Wisconsin, and have been pretty sheltered from African American culture. Hell, I didn't even go to school with a black person until junior high, and even then, they were only half-black. I go to one of the whitest schools in the country, with only 2% of enrolled students.
Chris Rock might have thought that he was making a point that the Oscars are hopelessly out of touch with everyday people, but in reality it backfired, for little ol' sheltered me, at least.
I was assuming that there'd be more talk about the Oscars. I mean, you're all faggots who read this, right?
I didn't actually watch all of the Oscars; I spent part of Sunday night rocking out, in case you've forgotten. I caught a part where Chris Rock was doing some sort of comedy bit (I don't find Chris Rock all that funny, to tell the truth) where he went to a movie theatre and asked the common man, i.e. black people, whether or not they've seen the movies nominated.
"Sideways? Never heard of it."
"Million Dollar Baby? Hell no"
"Aviator? That's the one with the guy from the Beach, right?"
"My favorite movie this year? Saw."
"Finding Neverland? Finding wha?"
"White Chicks? Now that's one funny movie"
And the only thing that I could think of to say was "Wow. Black people have absolutely no taste."
That's pretty racist of me to say, right? I mean, I live in Wisconsin, and have been pretty sheltered from African American culture. Hell, I didn't even go to school with a black person until junior high, and even then, they were only half-black. I go to one of the whitest schools in the country, with only 2% of enrolled students.
Chris Rock might have thought that he was making a point that the Oscars are hopelessly out of touch with everyday people, but in reality it backfired, for little ol' sheltered me, at least.
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