Yes, I know I haven't been the best of bloggers lately. And so, to make it up to you, I'm going to have these three drunk guys serenade (aubade?) you.
September 26, 2006
Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time
Yes, I know I haven't been the best of bloggers lately. And so, to make it up to you, I'm going to have these three drunk guys serenade (aubade?) you.
September 21, 2006
Hypothetically Speaking
Let's pretend for a second that you're a moderately cute gay boy attending a large university who's been going through a dry spell lately. All of your friends are straight and they go to sketchy dives, and you've pretty much never had any luck at any of the bars you frequent. And so push comes to shove, you start to look for, for lack of a better term, companionship online. Once even, late at night, after a few Bacardi Razz/Cokes at said dive, you post something on craigslist for a get-together the next day.
What would the protocol be if, on the off chance, the first interested party to email you is one of those straight friends with whom you were just at the bar a few hours earlier? He'd often given off slight gay vibes (or rather, his heterosexuality always seemed too forced) but he dated your best friend when they went to high school together and are still on good terms, and you just chalked up his weird vibes to being awkward when meeting new people and being surrounded by the girls in your social circle. You're sure it's him, because he attached a face pic and used his school email account.
You've always thought he was cute, and he knows you're gay, so should you go for it? Or just never speak of it again? Or ask pretty much everyone in your social circle what the proper response should be? Or should you pull him aside the next time you two go drinking together (which, in all likelihood, will be the next night) and drop the information, pledge your silence but offer an open ear if he needs to talk to you ever? Or should you invite him over, send a slightly out of date, out of focus picture of yourself and have him show up at your place and have an incredibly awkward conversation then and try and blackmail him into being your love slave?
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
It, uh, happened to a friend of mine. A friend of a friend, really. A friend of a friend's cousin. Yeah, that's it. You buy that, right?
What would the protocol be if, on the off chance, the first interested party to email you is one of those straight friends with whom you were just at the bar a few hours earlier? He'd often given off slight gay vibes (or rather, his heterosexuality always seemed too forced) but he dated your best friend when they went to high school together and are still on good terms, and you just chalked up his weird vibes to being awkward when meeting new people and being surrounded by the girls in your social circle. You're sure it's him, because he attached a face pic and used his school email account.
You've always thought he was cute, and he knows you're gay, so should you go for it? Or just never speak of it again? Or ask pretty much everyone in your social circle what the proper response should be? Or should you pull him aside the next time you two go drinking together (which, in all likelihood, will be the next night) and drop the information, pledge your silence but offer an open ear if he needs to talk to you ever? Or should you invite him over, send a slightly out of date, out of focus picture of yourself and have him show up at your place and have an incredibly awkward conversation then and try and blackmail him into being your love slave?
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
It, uh, happened to a friend of mine. A friend of a friend, really. A friend of a friend's cousin. Yeah, that's it. You buy that, right?
September 17, 2006
The Internet is for porn Sex
The only thing worse than spending all day online, searching for sex is spending all day online searching for sex and failing.
I suppose I am sort of a Goldilocks in this situation; this little piggy is too old, this little piggy is too fat, this little piggy lives too far, and this little piggy likes scat. I suppose I'm mixing childhood references there. Hmmm.
After a while, it almost becomes an obsession with me. Well, not an obsession, but I definitely start to worry. Why won't none of the cute guys sleep with me? Is there something wrong with my pic? Do I act desperate and enter my stats and my need for carnality to the room? Should I not care who's sucking my cock, as long as I don't have to reciprocate? These are big questions.
After over an hour of being online with no one within my boundaries (no freaks, fatties, or old fogies) I just sit online waiting. I mean, if I've waited this long, it almost seems like a defeat and a blow to my ego if I can't find anyone. If I keep waiting, maybe someone cute and interested will log in. Even if he lives too far, or is looking for something other than I am, at least it's nice to be asked. I'm owed.
At any rate, getting bored with my usual online site, on Saturday I surfed the web for other sites that might help me with my endeavor. And, while doing a full-country search, I stumbled upon pictures of a prominent blogger engaged in some compromising situations featuring a fetish. I had to go to his site and double check his location and age, but I'm pretty sure that's him engaging in that fetish. Well, I don't know if it's a fetish per se, it was pretty hot. If I had the equipment, I'd totally do him.
Eventually I decided to sign out of the other sites and take matters into my own hand. (I've recovered very well, thanks for asking.)
So thank you, anonymous prominent blogger in the compromising situations, and if you're ever in the mood for a road trip, you should definitely look me up.
I suppose I am sort of a Goldilocks in this situation; this little piggy is too old, this little piggy is too fat, this little piggy lives too far, and this little piggy likes scat. I suppose I'm mixing childhood references there. Hmmm.
After a while, it almost becomes an obsession with me. Well, not an obsession, but I definitely start to worry. Why won't none of the cute guys sleep with me? Is there something wrong with my pic? Do I act desperate and enter my stats and my need for carnality to the room? Should I not care who's sucking my cock, as long as I don't have to reciprocate? These are big questions.
After over an hour of being online with no one within my boundaries (no freaks, fatties, or old fogies) I just sit online waiting. I mean, if I've waited this long, it almost seems like a defeat and a blow to my ego if I can't find anyone. If I keep waiting, maybe someone cute and interested will log in. Even if he lives too far, or is looking for something other than I am, at least it's nice to be asked. I'm owed.
At any rate, getting bored with my usual online site, on Saturday I surfed the web for other sites that might help me with my endeavor. And, while doing a full-country search, I stumbled upon pictures of a prominent blogger engaged in some compromising situations featuring a fetish. I had to go to his site and double check his location and age, but I'm pretty sure that's him engaging in that fetish. Well, I don't know if it's a fetish per se, it was pretty hot. If I had the equipment, I'd totally do him.
Eventually I decided to sign out of the other sites and take matters into my own hand. (I've recovered very well, thanks for asking.)
So thank you, anonymous prominent blogger in the compromising situations, and if you're ever in the mood for a road trip, you should definitely look me up.
September 13, 2006
Hangnail
I thought that having a hangnail on my thumb was annoying enough. I mean, it always gets caught on stuff, and it feels weird when I stick my hands in my pockets. Hangnails are one of those eternal complaints, with many a bad comedian dedicating hours to his act extolling the pains of having that little sliver of skin on the side of your nail. We've all had them, we all think they're annoying, but they're rarely worthy of sympathy.
However, I didn't know from annoying until late last night. After returning from the bar, (or rather, after returning from late-night cheese fries on the way home from the bar) I got home and was feeling a bit, well, frisky. My internet connection was spotty at best, so inviting someone over was out of the question. Besides, it was sprinkling out and few people are willing to travel when its raining. Dejected, I stuck in a cd of videos I had downloaded a year earlier but rarely watched.
Things were going well until I got to, well, the money shot. As I got closer and closer, my hand started speeding, faster and faster, and just as I was getting close--bam! pow! I wish it were in the kisser, but no, it was in a much more delicate place. My penis started to sting, incredibly, and I had to stop. I inspected the area closely, and found that I had stabbed myself under the head, along the rim, with my hangnail. The tip of that hangnail was red, and I could see a drop of blood lining the edge of my engorged cockhead. I had stabbed myself in my penis, and I was bleeding.
I may have been to the bars earlier that night, but I was by no means drunk, and I had nowhere near enough Bacardi in me to dull the pain of stabbing myself in the penis.
Well, at least I know better for next time, I guess. But Jesus Christ, my poor penis.
However, I didn't know from annoying until late last night. After returning from the bar, (or rather, after returning from late-night cheese fries on the way home from the bar) I got home and was feeling a bit, well, frisky. My internet connection was spotty at best, so inviting someone over was out of the question. Besides, it was sprinkling out and few people are willing to travel when its raining. Dejected, I stuck in a cd of videos I had downloaded a year earlier but rarely watched.
Things were going well until I got to, well, the money shot. As I got closer and closer, my hand started speeding, faster and faster, and just as I was getting close--bam! pow! I wish it were in the kisser, but no, it was in a much more delicate place. My penis started to sting, incredibly, and I had to stop. I inspected the area closely, and found that I had stabbed myself under the head, along the rim, with my hangnail. The tip of that hangnail was red, and I could see a drop of blood lining the edge of my engorged cockhead. I had stabbed myself in my penis, and I was bleeding.
I may have been to the bars earlier that night, but I was by no means drunk, and I had nowhere near enough Bacardi in me to dull the pain of stabbing myself in the penis.
Well, at least I know better for next time, I guess. But Jesus Christ, my poor penis.
September 12, 2006
Introductions
For every discussion section I've ever taken, there's always the silly practice of going around the room and introducing yourself, giving your name, your year, your major, where you're from, and an 'interesting' fact about yourself. I put interesting in scare quotes because invariably, the facts are rarely, if ever, actually interesting, and are usually along the lines of "I spent my summer waterskiing" or "My dog is about to give puppies" and other facts that send me to the crosswords.
For my history class, I decided to take the plunge.
Of course, after saying that and listening to the polite wtf laughter going around the room, I look around and see three very buff looking guys with popped collars with red faces.
Whoops.
NB--I'm stealing wireless from the cofeeshop across the street this semester, and it's often spotty. If I'm chatting with you online and I just log out for no reason, don't worry.
For my history class, I decided to take the plunge.
Hi, my name is Bob. I'm an English major, with double minor in Creative Writing and GLBT studies, I'll be graduating in December, and I'm from Wisconsin. Um, an interesting fact about me is that sometimes when I get drunk I go around the bar and unpop guy's collars because I think it's really obnoxious and lame.
Of course, after saying that and listening to the polite wtf laughter going around the room, I look around and see three very buff looking guys with popped collars with red faces.
Whoops.
NB--I'm stealing wireless from the cofeeshop across the street this semester, and it's often spotty. If I'm chatting with you online and I just log out for no reason, don't worry.
September 6, 2006
Comm Arts 351: Introduction to TV Literacy
The first thing I do on school days is grab both the school newspapers on the way to class. I always sit in the back, usually on the right side, skim the headlines, then discard the crappy student journalism and then get down to the crossword puzzles. I wasn't sure if the newspapers would be ready on the first day of school, but there's nothing more boring than having the professor read aloud from the syllabus for 45 minutes, especially when there are matters of grave importance at hand; for instance a seven-letter word for what most bowlers aim for (KINGPIN).
With a class like Introduction to TV Literacy, grabbing the school newspapers is a no-brainer. I'm all about the class, don't get me wrong; I'm sure I'll be pulling something official and scholarly out of my ass when my grandparents ask me what classes I'm taking, but its an easy class that sounds somewhat interesting and shouldn't take up too much of my freetime, which will be spent drinking and working on my two senior theses.
I'm one of those jerks who sits at the aisle seat, even if there are empy seats further down the row. I prefer a lot of space to spread my stuff out, and I need the extra room for my long legs. Sure, it may mean getting up and letting other people through until class starts, but it also means that I get extra space, and I'm perfectly fine with everyone thinking I'm a jerk.
I sit down and spread out my stuff, and make a pile of the parts of the newspapers that I couldn't give a rat's ass about--the sports section, the student editorials, the classifieds--and get out a pencil and start in on my crossword.
A few minutes go by (I am eternally ten minutes early to everything) and I hear "Excuse me." I sit up and move my legs under my seat to let him through. I look up, casually checking out the guy who's passing me by, and lo and behold, I'm staring into Guy's eyes. (Guy is, of course, yet one of the guys I slept with once, developed an irrationally gushing crush on, and then was disappointed when it wasn't reciprocated. Except this one I like more than the others, and he's always been the politest towards me when we bump into each other at a bar or something.)
"Hey."
"Hey. I didn't know you were in this class." He's still standing right in front of me, with an 'I'm from Southern California and I have a causal sexiness about me' grin on his face. Goddamn I want to jump his bones, even if his haircut isn't doing much for him.
He moves forward and then sits next to me. Right there. If we weren't in class he would have just invaded my personal bubble. My jeans leg is touching his jeans leg! I can tell what flavor gum he's chewing. His friend walks past me and then sits on the other side of him and is making a big point of fixing her hair so it looks good with her sunglasses at the top of her head. There's a bit more awkward small talk between us: it turns out we're not in the same discussion section, and how I hate it when the professor is also the discussion leader.
He looks around and thinks he notices a friend sitting across the room, yells his name to get his attention, and then turns to talk to the friend sitting next to him, asking what discussion section she's in and what she did this weekend once they parted ways. I turn and continue working on my crossword puzzle, putting my elbow on the shared armrest, hoping that he'll brush up against it, remember how much fun we had that night, and then we'd start making out in the back row of the lecture hall. Or something like that.
Eventually, class had to start. The professor is cute, in a Matthew-Perry-first-season-of-Friends way, except with glasses. It's also very blatantly his first year teaching, and he's unsure about how to time things and is uncomfortable using the power-point, forgetting to flip slides, speaking too quickly and fidgeting. It would have been unbearable had I not picked up the crossword puzzle. I moved the crossword puzzle on top of my notebook and went to work, thinking of an ten letter word for a gold-digger's want (SUGARDADDY).
The professor was talking about how some people see misogyny in the fact that television is the bastard child of the performing arts and lowest in the pecking order (opera, theatre, music, film, television) and highest in controversy. Apparently, tv is the only one centralized to the 'domestic sphere' and therefore has always been seen as a lower status due to blah blah blah. My bullshit meter had gone off and I stopped paying attention, especially since it sounded like he didn't really believe what he was saying either; he was just giving examples of why some people consider TV to be a lower artistic form.
I'm working on the crossword, kinda stumped and playing with my pencil absentmindedly, when Guy leans over and starts writing in the answer for a four letter word for "golden circle" (HALO). To write it in the lines, his forearm is resting on my thigh, dangerously close to the 'danger zone.' I get a semi but he doesn't notice. He's leaning in close, and I can tell that he used Herbal Essesnces this morning. He has definitely invaded my personal bubble. He then sits up and starts to pay attention to the lecture again, occasionally looking over my shoulder at the crossword.
The lights go off and I consider making my move. While talking about something or another, he plays the first five minutes of "It Hits the Fan" of South Park to illustrate the fact that people consider TV to be in a decline since the "Golden Age of Television" in the fifties, and how TV is a bad influence. Mostly I just think the professor likes South Park, since he's probably only three or four years older than I am.
I move my leg over a little more, so that our jeans legs are touching. I deliberately but in a totally nonchalant fashion start bouncing my legs slightly, but he doesn't respond. He's not using the armrest at all, so I move my arm down closer and hope that the urge to rest his arm on the wooden bar hits him. It doesn't. I bump my knee into his on accident (it actually was this time), and he responds by moving his leg the other way slightly. He's too engrossed in the South Park, which happens. Or he's just unfamiliar with the fact that two boys plays footsie during a Comm Arts class is allowed, nay encouraged (demonstrated by my last Comm Arts class).
Class ends, he says something dumb like "Good bumping into you" and I respond with something equally dumb, while he heads in the other direction to say hi to that guy he thought he recognized on the other side of the room earlier. I get my stuff together and practically skip all the way home.
With a class like Introduction to TV Literacy, grabbing the school newspapers is a no-brainer. I'm all about the class, don't get me wrong; I'm sure I'll be pulling something official and scholarly out of my ass when my grandparents ask me what classes I'm taking, but its an easy class that sounds somewhat interesting and shouldn't take up too much of my freetime, which will be spent drinking and working on my two senior theses.
I'm one of those jerks who sits at the aisle seat, even if there are empy seats further down the row. I prefer a lot of space to spread my stuff out, and I need the extra room for my long legs. Sure, it may mean getting up and letting other people through until class starts, but it also means that I get extra space, and I'm perfectly fine with everyone thinking I'm a jerk.
I sit down and spread out my stuff, and make a pile of the parts of the newspapers that I couldn't give a rat's ass about--the sports section, the student editorials, the classifieds--and get out a pencil and start in on my crossword.
A few minutes go by (I am eternally ten minutes early to everything) and I hear "Excuse me." I sit up and move my legs under my seat to let him through. I look up, casually checking out the guy who's passing me by, and lo and behold, I'm staring into Guy's eyes. (Guy is, of course, yet one of the guys I slept with once, developed an irrationally gushing crush on, and then was disappointed when it wasn't reciprocated. Except this one I like more than the others, and he's always been the politest towards me when we bump into each other at a bar or something.)
"Hey."
"Hey. I didn't know you were in this class." He's still standing right in front of me, with an 'I'm from Southern California and I have a causal sexiness about me' grin on his face. Goddamn I want to jump his bones, even if his haircut isn't doing much for him.
He moves forward and then sits next to me. Right there. If we weren't in class he would have just invaded my personal bubble. My jeans leg is touching his jeans leg! I can tell what flavor gum he's chewing. His friend walks past me and then sits on the other side of him and is making a big point of fixing her hair so it looks good with her sunglasses at the top of her head. There's a bit more awkward small talk between us: it turns out we're not in the same discussion section, and how I hate it when the professor is also the discussion leader.
He looks around and thinks he notices a friend sitting across the room, yells his name to get his attention, and then turns to talk to the friend sitting next to him, asking what discussion section she's in and what she did this weekend once they parted ways. I turn and continue working on my crossword puzzle, putting my elbow on the shared armrest, hoping that he'll brush up against it, remember how much fun we had that night, and then we'd start making out in the back row of the lecture hall. Or something like that.
Eventually, class had to start. The professor is cute, in a Matthew-Perry-first-season-of-Friends way, except with glasses. It's also very blatantly his first year teaching, and he's unsure about how to time things and is uncomfortable using the power-point, forgetting to flip slides, speaking too quickly and fidgeting. It would have been unbearable had I not picked up the crossword puzzle. I moved the crossword puzzle on top of my notebook and went to work, thinking of an ten letter word for a gold-digger's want (SUGARDADDY).
The professor was talking about how some people see misogyny in the fact that television is the bastard child of the performing arts and lowest in the pecking order (opera, theatre, music, film, television) and highest in controversy. Apparently, tv is the only one centralized to the 'domestic sphere' and therefore has always been seen as a lower status due to blah blah blah. My bullshit meter had gone off and I stopped paying attention, especially since it sounded like he didn't really believe what he was saying either; he was just giving examples of why some people consider TV to be a lower artistic form.
I'm working on the crossword, kinda stumped and playing with my pencil absentmindedly, when Guy leans over and starts writing in the answer for a four letter word for "golden circle" (HALO). To write it in the lines, his forearm is resting on my thigh, dangerously close to the 'danger zone.' I get a semi but he doesn't notice. He's leaning in close, and I can tell that he used Herbal Essesnces this morning. He has definitely invaded my personal bubble. He then sits up and starts to pay attention to the lecture again, occasionally looking over my shoulder at the crossword.
The lights go off and I consider making my move. While talking about something or another, he plays the first five minutes of "It Hits the Fan" of South Park to illustrate the fact that people consider TV to be in a decline since the "Golden Age of Television" in the fifties, and how TV is a bad influence. Mostly I just think the professor likes South Park, since he's probably only three or four years older than I am.
I move my leg over a little more, so that our jeans legs are touching. I deliberately but in a totally nonchalant fashion start bouncing my legs slightly, but he doesn't respond. He's not using the armrest at all, so I move my arm down closer and hope that the urge to rest his arm on the wooden bar hits him. It doesn't. I bump my knee into his on accident (it actually was this time), and he responds by moving his leg the other way slightly. He's too engrossed in the South Park, which happens. Or he's just unfamiliar with the fact that two boys plays footsie during a Comm Arts class is allowed, nay encouraged (demonstrated by my last Comm Arts class).
Class ends, he says something dumb like "Good bumping into you" and I respond with something equally dumb, while he heads in the other direction to say hi to that guy he thought he recognized on the other side of the room earlier. I get my stuff together and practically skip all the way home.
September 5, 2006
I Cried Myself to Sleep Last Night
Ok, no I didn't. There were a few tears in my eyes, true, but saying that I cried myself to sleep is definitely hyperbolic. And I have to try and stop with the hyperbole, no matter how easily it comes to me when writing. And it does come easily-- almost as easy as my roommate freshman year.
For the astute readers, you've probably realized that I deleted yesterday's post, due to the incredibly unfortunate fact that the guy about whom the post was written found the blog and wasn't pleased by some of the things I wrote about him. It turns out that while I was busy googling him and finding his blog, he too was on google and found this blog. I guess the distinction between the me in real life and the me via the blog isn't as differentiated as I thought. Turns out, it's pretty easy to find this blog without much effort.
There's a reason why I don't like it when people I know in real life read the blog. Hell, sometimes I don't even like it that I've befriended people via AIM who read the blog. I hate having to censor myself, or make sure not to offend people, or to stay objective. As I've mentioned a few times in the past, I'm not going to let a few details such as the facts and the truth get in the way of a good story.
Was the guy in yesterday's post as bad as I made him out to be? No, of course not. But it made for a much better story, and story trumps everything. That's why I have absolutely no desire to be a journalist or reporter. I can't stay objective. Were my exagerations along the lines of A Million Little Pieces? No. I made up details, not storylines. It's like David Sedaris. Sure, his family are all quirky, but nowhere near the freaks they tend to be in his stories.
It must be difficult to find the blog of the guy you slept with and hoped to date, only to find that he's painted you as a bigoted alcoholic.
Am I sorry I wrote it? Yes. Would I be sorry if he didn't find out about it? Probably not. Does that make me a bad person? Probably. I'm sorry I hurt his feelings, not that I exaggerated to turn it into a better story. Was I able to tell the difference between being drunk with friends and sober self? Of course. Would the story have been as interesting with that distinction? I would guess not.
I don't know.
For the astute readers, you've probably realized that I deleted yesterday's post, due to the incredibly unfortunate fact that the guy about whom the post was written found the blog and wasn't pleased by some of the things I wrote about him. It turns out that while I was busy googling him and finding his blog, he too was on google and found this blog. I guess the distinction between the me in real life and the me via the blog isn't as differentiated as I thought. Turns out, it's pretty easy to find this blog without much effort.
There's a reason why I don't like it when people I know in real life read the blog. Hell, sometimes I don't even like it that I've befriended people via AIM who read the blog. I hate having to censor myself, or make sure not to offend people, or to stay objective. As I've mentioned a few times in the past, I'm not going to let a few details such as the facts and the truth get in the way of a good story.
Was the guy in yesterday's post as bad as I made him out to be? No, of course not. But it made for a much better story, and story trumps everything. That's why I have absolutely no desire to be a journalist or reporter. I can't stay objective. Were my exagerations along the lines of A Million Little Pieces? No. I made up details, not storylines. It's like David Sedaris. Sure, his family are all quirky, but nowhere near the freaks they tend to be in his stories.
It must be difficult to find the blog of the guy you slept with and hoped to date, only to find that he's painted you as a bigoted alcoholic.
Am I sorry I wrote it? Yes. Would I be sorry if he didn't find out about it? Probably not. Does that make me a bad person? Probably. I'm sorry I hurt his feelings, not that I exaggerated to turn it into a better story. Was I able to tell the difference between being drunk with friends and sober self? Of course. Would the story have been as interesting with that distinction? I would guess not.
I don't know.
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