This morning, for brunch, I had a banana.
Throughout the afternoon I snacked on carrots and cucumbers dipped in Ranch sauce.
I chewed on the ends of pens and markers while doing some writing.
For dinner, I had a (vegetarian) brat and a dill pickle.
...
...yeah..... I know that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but I think that this time it may mean something else.
Damn it's been a while.
June 14, 2004
beautiful boys on a beautiful dance-floor
you're dancing like a beautiful dance whore
A while ago, I posted something about how I was aware that I come off as a cunt in emails. And, conveniently enough, I have an example and a favor to ask of you all.
About a week ago I received an email from Steven asking if I would put a link to him. Now, this email arrived in my junk mail folder, and the title of the email was "HI" so by all means I should have junked it without opening it, but I was feeling adventurous or something. Cosmically I must have known it wasn't junk mail.
His email was nice and sweet. He is working on a website for gay youth and wants me to link to him. While it was nice and all, it sounded a bit like a junk mail scam that permeates guestbooks. The biggest tip-off was that he signed off with "Very Truly Yours," and I doubted he was alluding to G & S. I was going to delete it, but I hated to think about not responding to someone's email. I always try to follow his rules, so I fired off a email asking for justification. He replied, and was a nice guy about it, but I still feel like a dork for questioning him.
However. According to his blog, he is the president of three clubs on his campus, maintains a 3.8 GPA, and runs a non-profit organization in his spare time. That makes him the dork. That also makes him a better person than I am, ergo I hate him. (edit: He maintains he is a sexy dork, and not a normal one.)
Because I feel like a jerk for my email, I'd like to ask everyone to click the above banner 80,000 times to help me repent. I'd like him to have more hits than Tina Turner on her honeymoon. (That's right. I went there.) Otherwise, if you could sign up for his bi-weekly newsletter, that'd be great, too. It's for a good cause: GYUP:Gay Young Urban Professionals Gay Youth Unity Project, which even sounds like something in which you should take an interest,
helping all the young dykes and faggots feel like they belong.
Pretty please? I'll love you forever.
About a week ago I received an email from Steven asking if I would put a link to him. Now, this email arrived in my junk mail folder, and the title of the email was "HI" so by all means I should have junked it without opening it, but I was feeling adventurous or something. Cosmically I must have known it wasn't junk mail.
His email was nice and sweet. He is working on a website for gay youth and wants me to link to him. While it was nice and all, it sounded a bit like a junk mail scam that permeates guestbooks. The biggest tip-off was that he signed off with "Very Truly Yours," and I doubted he was alluding to G & S. I was going to delete it, but I hated to think about not responding to someone's email. I always try to follow his rules, so I fired off a email asking for justification. He replied, and was a nice guy about it, but I still feel like a dork for questioning him.
However. According to his blog, he is the president of three clubs on his campus, maintains a 3.8 GPA, and runs a non-profit organization in his spare time. That makes him the dork. That also makes him a better person than I am, ergo I hate him. (edit: He maintains he is a sexy dork, and not a normal one.)
Because I feel like a jerk for my email, I'd like to ask everyone to click the above banner 80,000 times to help me repent. I'd like him to have more hits than Tina Turner on her honeymoon. (That's right. I went there.) Otherwise, if you could sign up for his bi-weekly newsletter, that'd be great, too. It's for a good cause: GYUP:
helping all the young dykes and faggots feel like they belong.
Pretty please? I'll love you forever.
June 13, 2004
I'm really not very ridiculous, am I?
I went back home filled with this sense of the absurdity of everything on the earth. Nothing was fixed and sure. We all melted into ridiculousness in the end.
Who rocks the party that rocks the Denton Welch?
I rock the party that rocks the Denton Welch.
Who rocks the party that rocks the Denton Welch?
I rock the party that rocks the Denton Welch.
June 12, 2004
Rain On My Parade, Damnit!
There is a parade passing my house as I type. It's the oldest or the biggest or the most superlative in some way Flag Day parade in the world. I don't really care. Parades are stupid. Right now I'm inside, trying to discover whether or not I have some secret mutant abilities that would destroy the parade and everyone watching.
To an unobserved onlooker, my face may appear that I am either jerking off or constipated (ok, maybe a slight yes to the former) but in every science fiction movie I've ever seen, whenever people discover they have mutant abilities, they always contort their faces into hilarious grimaces, which are later obscured due to the awesome pyrotechnics or special effects.
I hate parades. I know I use the phrase 'abhor' to where it doesn't hold the same 'oomph' as it could, but trust me. I've searched online thesauri, and there isn't a word to better extoll my pure, vitriolic hatred for parades.
Well, maybe not for all parades, but only the ones that pass my front lawn. Allow me to recap the joys of last year's parade, so I don't come off as some sort of Scrooge.
On the morning of the parade I was awakened by a 50 year old balding, shirtless man who wanted to use our bathroom. My parents said no, because it was 9 AM and he was already drunk. I saw this take place from my bedroom window, so my judgment might be off, but I don't think his love handles would have fit through our doors. He then went and started talking to a woman in a tank top who was standing on our flowerbed. This was a woman who should never, ever be allowed to wear a tank top, even in the comfort of her own home. She was holding two drinks, and after the guy talked to her for a little bit, they threw their drinks at our porch, missed and hit the garden, and then went into our neighbor's yard, where the guy relieved himself on some hedges. Our neighbor saw this, and proceeded to yell and scream and carry on. Good morning to you too.
Throughout the day, fat people in folding chairs set up their equipment on the lawn between the sidewalk and the street, as they've done for years. Fat people with chubby little kids who leave their sticky fingerprints all over the goddamn place and whine when they run out of cotton candy. Boomboxes play crappy patriotic, country, and religious rock. Now, if I had supernatural powers where I could magically end three styles of music, patriotic, country, and religious rock would cease to exist. Sorry Dolly.
A few people couldn't find a parking spot and so decided to use our driveway without asking. As they explained to my irate father, "Well, what are you, Communist? Why would you need to leave during the parade, eh?" He tried explaining that I had to leave for a rehearsal a few minutes before the parade ended, but they left to find good seats while he was talking to them.
So he called the police and had them ticketed. Unfortunately, there was too much parking on the street for the tow trucks to make it in, so they put a clamp-thing on the front tires until after the parade. After some wheeling and dealing, I was able to eek around their van and make it to rehearsal. According to my mom, after the parade the rest of my family ran inside and hid from them. There was a policeman guiding traffic on the corner, so they didn't try anything, and the tow truck came and took them away once traffic had died down.
The next morning, we awoke to find our sidewalks filled with comments like "Dirty Communists'," "Sadam and Osama lives here," "Athesist Scum," and the like. It was kind of funny: they were so angry, they went out, bought chalk and snuck in during the middle of the night and wrote badly misspelled insults on our sidewalks. Now, I'm not a vengeful person, but even I could think of some better retaliation than that, something that wasn't water-soluble.
Now this year, things have been okay. It's been raining and windy for the past few days, continuing up until this morning. People stayed away for the most part, at most setting down a tarp and leaving for long chunks of time. I liked it. It was quiet and ugly drunk-free. Around noon, however, the sun came out and started to shine like the motherfucker that it is. We have about a third of as many people camping out on our front lawn as we did last year, and they're no where near as annoying as guests from previous years. It's too cold for shirts to be off and tank tops worn without a jacket. The parade is about half-done now, and there has been no major commotion. Yet.
Well, that's enough for today. I've wasted too much time typing this, and I am not a superhero yet. I think I may continue with my attempts, which may or may not look similar to having a wad off at the wrist to the nifty archives to the untrained eye.
To an unobserved onlooker, my face may appear that I am either jerking off or constipated (ok, maybe a slight yes to the former) but in every science fiction movie I've ever seen, whenever people discover they have mutant abilities, they always contort their faces into hilarious grimaces, which are later obscured due to the awesome pyrotechnics or special effects.
I hate parades. I know I use the phrase 'abhor' to where it doesn't hold the same 'oomph' as it could, but trust me. I've searched online thesauri, and there isn't a word to better extoll my pure, vitriolic hatred for parades.
Well, maybe not for all parades, but only the ones that pass my front lawn. Allow me to recap the joys of last year's parade, so I don't come off as some sort of Scrooge.
On the morning of the parade I was awakened by a 50 year old balding, shirtless man who wanted to use our bathroom. My parents said no, because it was 9 AM and he was already drunk. I saw this take place from my bedroom window, so my judgment might be off, but I don't think his love handles would have fit through our doors. He then went and started talking to a woman in a tank top who was standing on our flowerbed. This was a woman who should never, ever be allowed to wear a tank top, even in the comfort of her own home. She was holding two drinks, and after the guy talked to her for a little bit, they threw their drinks at our porch, missed and hit the garden, and then went into our neighbor's yard, where the guy relieved himself on some hedges. Our neighbor saw this, and proceeded to yell and scream and carry on. Good morning to you too.
Throughout the day, fat people in folding chairs set up their equipment on the lawn between the sidewalk and the street, as they've done for years. Fat people with chubby little kids who leave their sticky fingerprints all over the goddamn place and whine when they run out of cotton candy. Boomboxes play crappy patriotic, country, and religious rock. Now, if I had supernatural powers where I could magically end three styles of music, patriotic, country, and religious rock would cease to exist. Sorry Dolly.
A few people couldn't find a parking spot and so decided to use our driveway without asking. As they explained to my irate father, "Well, what are you, Communist? Why would you need to leave during the parade, eh?" He tried explaining that I had to leave for a rehearsal a few minutes before the parade ended, but they left to find good seats while he was talking to them.
So he called the police and had them ticketed. Unfortunately, there was too much parking on the street for the tow trucks to make it in, so they put a clamp-thing on the front tires until after the parade. After some wheeling and dealing, I was able to eek around their van and make it to rehearsal. According to my mom, after the parade the rest of my family ran inside and hid from them. There was a policeman guiding traffic on the corner, so they didn't try anything, and the tow truck came and took them away once traffic had died down.
The next morning, we awoke to find our sidewalks filled with comments like "Dirty Communists'," "Sadam and Osama lives here," "Athesist Scum," and the like. It was kind of funny: they were so angry, they went out, bought chalk and snuck in during the middle of the night and wrote badly misspelled insults on our sidewalks. Now, I'm not a vengeful person, but even I could think of some better retaliation than that, something that wasn't water-soluble.
Now this year, things have been okay. It's been raining and windy for the past few days, continuing up until this morning. People stayed away for the most part, at most setting down a tarp and leaving for long chunks of time. I liked it. It was quiet and ugly drunk-free. Around noon, however, the sun came out and started to shine like the motherfucker that it is. We have about a third of as many people camping out on our front lawn as we did last year, and they're no where near as annoying as guests from previous years. It's too cold for shirts to be off and tank tops worn without a jacket. The parade is about half-done now, and there has been no major commotion. Yet.
Well, that's enough for today. I've wasted too much time typing this, and I am not a superhero yet. I think I may continue with my attempts, which may or may not look similar to having a wad off at the wrist to the nifty archives to the untrained eye.
June 11, 2004
The Day of Mourning.
I've been rattling my brain to think of something to write about Reagan; it seems like the 'it' thing to do lately. As hard as I've been trying, I just can't seem to get riled up or care all too much. I mean, I barely knew him. He was elected the year I was born-- am I dating myself by saying that? (Well, it's not like anyone else is dating me.)
Erm. Yeah. When I start making jokes that bad it's time for the post to end.
Erm. Yeah. When I start making jokes that bad it's time for the post to end.
June 10, 2004
Two quick things:
1. Two posts ago, right before that crappy poem, I mentioned that my grandfather, whom I abhor, scheduled a meeting for me with the local recruitment office for my birthday last year. To be fair, I exaggerated a bit. He gave me his card, said that he knew the guy and that he was going to call me that week to schedule a meeting. Fortunately, I was out of the house at the time (I think I was on a date, which may or may not make the story more interesting) and whoops! I 'accidentally' deleted the message from the machine when I got home, though I kind of wish I had gone to the meeting, just because it would make for a great story: to see how many overtly nelly things I could say before he cocked an eyebrow and said that he had a meeting he forgot about or whatever. The guy didn't call back, and the next time I saw my grandfather, I changed the subject quickly.
I have a step-cousin (whom I've met once) who apparently took my grandfather seriously and met with the recruitment agent. He was an army brat though, and I think he would have enlisted without my grandfather's help. Unfortunately, he didn't make it past boot camp. He was sent home after two weeks because he became uncontrollably sick due to food allergies. Instead of, you know, giving him medicine or finding other food for him to eat, he was forced to do push-ups until he passed out. After that happened 4 or 5 times, he got a honorable discharge and was sent to the hospital where he was finally treated. The sergeant or lieutenant or whatever ended up getting in a lot of trouble for seriously endangering his life. Since then, there's been no talk of me enlisting, thank goodness.
2. Chrisafer is my new favorite person in the history of ever, for the gorgeous imagery in this post:
I have a step-cousin (whom I've met once) who apparently took my grandfather seriously and met with the recruitment agent. He was an army brat though, and I think he would have enlisted without my grandfather's help. Unfortunately, he didn't make it past boot camp. He was sent home after two weeks because he became uncontrollably sick due to food allergies. Instead of, you know, giving him medicine or finding other food for him to eat, he was forced to do push-ups until he passed out. After that happened 4 or 5 times, he got a honorable discharge and was sent to the hospital where he was finally treated. The sergeant or lieutenant or whatever ended up getting in a lot of trouble for seriously endangering his life. Since then, there's been no talk of me enlisting, thank goodness.
2. Chrisafer is my new favorite person in the history of ever, for the gorgeous imagery in this post:
(Complaining about The Day After Tomorrow.) To be fair, I haven't seen it yet, but I think the movie would have been much more interesting if it were a sudden heatwave instead of an instant ice age. "Quick, Jake, get naked and pour this bucket of ice cold water on yourself. Here, let me run ice cubes up and down your chest."
The Ballad of Set
I’m as horny as frat boys in August
High as a kite on the 4th of July
And you may note:
A fist of raincoats
I’m going to get me a handful of guys
I wear hot pink on the outside
Cause hot pink is how I feel on the inside
I don’t wear much on the outside
Cause I don’t have much on the inside
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
Get in my bed
I’m your Mr. Present Tense
Mr. Right Now
Mr. Action Verb
I’m just looking for some fun
My eyes gazing on some young ones
I’m your mystery man
Impeccably coifed
Impeccably tanned
I’m just looking for the same
Oh don’t ask me for my name
I’m catty and gay: I’m a faggot in spades
A cliché coming true
I’m a versatile whore so you know you’ll get yours
Your wet dream coming true
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
I’m ready and willing
For your bed
I’m as horny as frat guys in earnest
I have kissed all inhibitions goodbye
I don’t give a damn
Long as I get my man
I’m in lust
I’m in lust
And the men
Whom I lust
They’re hung like a fucking horse!
High as a kite on the 4th of July
And you may note:
A fist of raincoats
I’m going to get me a handful of guys
I wear hot pink on the outside
Cause hot pink is how I feel on the inside
I don’t wear much on the outside
Cause I don’t have much on the inside
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
Get in my bed
I’m your Mr. Present Tense
Mr. Right Now
Mr. Action Verb
I’m just looking for some fun
My eyes gazing on some young ones
I’m your mystery man
Impeccably coifed
Impeccably tanned
I’m just looking for the same
Oh don’t ask me for my name
I’m catty and gay: I’m a faggot in spades
A cliché coming true
I’m a versatile whore so you know you’ll get yours
Your wet dream coming true
You bet I’m Set
You bet I’m Set
I’m ready and willing
For your bed
I’m as horny as frat guys in earnest
I have kissed all inhibitions goodbye
I don’t give a damn
Long as I get my man
I’m in lust
I’m in lust
And the men
Whom I lust
They’re hung like a fucking horse!
June 9, 2004
Props to the 'rents.
It's my parents' 25th anniversary today. Snaps to them, I guess.
Since I am a poor college student, I didn't make with the bling-bling. (25 years is Silver, just so you know.) I suppose I could have worked something out with my sisters, but I didn't.
My gift isn't going to matter in the long run anyway.
My grandma recently got married to a man I abhor. When they got married, she sold her house and moved in with him, and as a result, she's become a bit more conservative and slightly loaded. Ok, more than slightly loaded. She's so happy that they made it to 25 years that she's taking them on a Caribbean cruise.
"It's just so happy to see that people still preserve the sanctity of marriage, we wanted to reward that."
I'm happy for them. This will be the first time my Mom has flown in over twenty years, and the first time either of them has left the country. They leave on Sunday, and they're all aflutter, shopping for new outfits and packing.
The only downside to this trip is that my grandparents are accompanying them. The guy my grandma married is the most conservative man I've ever met. My grandma had your standard elderly conservatism going on, but he took her to a whole new level. He is extremely religious and patriotic, and he served in WWII. That's not a fault, but when he scheduled a meeting with my local recruiter for a birthday present, well, that's when the vitriol hits the fan.
As nice as it would be to go on a cruise, I don't envy my parents one bit. I mean, I wouldn't want to go on a cruise with my parents (but then again, a gay cruise is a whole other ballgame).
But I did my best for a gift: two kickass seats to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged), which is one of my dad's favorites. Hopefully it'll take his mind off of spending a week and a half with a man who says a prayer before having a tic-tac.
Since I am a poor college student, I didn't make with the bling-bling. (25 years is Silver, just so you know.) I suppose I could have worked something out with my sisters, but I didn't.
My gift isn't going to matter in the long run anyway.
My grandma recently got married to a man I abhor. When they got married, she sold her house and moved in with him, and as a result, she's become a bit more conservative and slightly loaded. Ok, more than slightly loaded. She's so happy that they made it to 25 years that she's taking them on a Caribbean cruise.
"It's just so happy to see that people still preserve the sanctity of marriage, we wanted to reward that."
I'm happy for them. This will be the first time my Mom has flown in over twenty years, and the first time either of them has left the country. They leave on Sunday, and they're all aflutter, shopping for new outfits and packing.
The only downside to this trip is that my grandparents are accompanying them. The guy my grandma married is the most conservative man I've ever met. My grandma had your standard elderly conservatism going on, but he took her to a whole new level. He is extremely religious and patriotic, and he served in WWII. That's not a fault, but when he scheduled a meeting with my local recruiter for a birthday present, well, that's when the vitriol hits the fan.
As nice as it would be to go on a cruise, I don't envy my parents one bit. I mean, I wouldn't want to go on a cruise with my parents (but then again, a gay cruise is a whole other ballgame).
But I did my best for a gift: two kickass seats to see The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged), which is one of my dad's favorites. Hopefully it'll take his mind off of spending a week and a half with a man who says a prayer before having a tic-tac.
June 8, 2004
NB-
I'm a bit blogged out for today, so nothing interesting. Some of my livejournal buddies got a bit uppity and started bringing the hateration of my high school, which, for those of you just joining us, was a charter arts school and it was fabulous. I ended up writing a 2+ page diatribe against the haters. I didn't so much put in my two cents as much as I dropped those two pennies from the Empire State and hoped they lodged themselves in certain people's foreheads.
The bitching can be found here, for those interested. Otherwise, I'll try and have something good for tomorrow.
The bitching can be found here, for those interested. Otherwise, I'll try and have something good for tomorrow.
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