No school for 30 days

Well finals are over...and this was probably the easiest semester I have ever had. Passed my barrier exam and am getting 'A's in all of my classes, except one, in which I am getting an 'A-'. Gawd, life for a nerd is so hard.

I plan on spending some time with Craiger before I leave for home next week, and working my ass off here in CoMo on the never-ending-QTL-mapping-project.

But this afternoon to relax, I went to Artisan and listened to all of Puccini's Il Tabarro and read along in the score. (When people ask me from now on why I like it so much, I will say: "Because the baritone strangles the tenor at the end".)

Which is true.

Well now I am off to the gym and then later to NKN where I will sink into a debauched state never again to be repeated.

I just got saran-wrapped into my bathroom.

The mind-numbing boredom of final’s week is finally getting to Aaron and Lane. Such pranks remind me of freshmen year...long, long ago.

Unfortunately, I was like, “Oh, look. I guess I can’t get out.”

If I had my wits about me, I would have said something to the effect of, “Oh you cruel, yet hitherto elusive food-wrap. You mock me! While you feign transparency, you really mirror my own person. Thin. Clear. Able to cover salad bowls and holiday cookies to prevent desiccation.”

Sparked by a conversation with Tessa about our Cancer status (and how we are too attached to our mothers), I have compiled a list of things my mom has taught me.

1)How to be (fashionably) late to everything.
2)How to be afraid of germs.
3)How to defend myself from attacking dogs.
4)How to prepare and eat 6-7 servings of fruit a day.
5)How to clean a bathroom.
6)How to multitask. Example: doing laundry, baking, listening to talk radio, entertaining small children, and talking on the phone at the same time.
7)How to write letters.
8)How to pack a sack lunch.
9)How to take care of a pregnant woman. Feed them Braunswagger and spinach.

On the floor in opera today:

Amy: Do you want to go to a gay club with me?
Me: No, I hear SoCo sucks ass, and not the good kind.
Amy: What is the good kind?
Me: Ken-Doll man-ass. What? You don't like that kind of ass?
Amy: Bitch, please.

Emily: If we procreated, it was just be for funsies. You don’t like girls.
Me: Oh. Does anyone procreate not for “funsies”?

Pay my liability, take care of my babies

This is my life in a nut-shell for the last couple days:

Saturday Craig and I left as planned to see Rob Thomas in KC. It was a fantastic show, and even the opening act, Anna Nalick had lots of spunk. RT isn’t my favorite music, per say, but he is an amazing performer and a very expressive vocalist.

That evening we met up with Jeff and Steven, and since I don’t have a fake ID (and therefore couldn’t get into “any” clubs in KC), we went to grab some food. At Denny’s. Big mistake. Approximately 4 AM I woke up to worship the porcelain god. Until about 4:30. Needless to say, I felt (and looked) like hammered shit all day Sunday.

On the bright side, I woke up this morning and was almost completely fine, leading me to believe it was some *very* acute food poisoning.

And with the help of my Whitney club mixes, and wild berry skittles, I will conquer this week, and then the semester. So there!

PS. It was snowing. Probably less than 1/8 of an inch, but I still called my Craiger. (Shuffles feet, purses lips)

Autonomy revoked

Ok tell me what you guys think.

After watching one to many reality shows on oxygen (or was it lifetime?) I have decided to seek the employ of a life-coach.

I know. You're excited.

As far as I can tell, a life coach is a person (preferably a witchy lesbian earth mother with spikey hair, or an Afrocentric matron with dread-locks) that makes sure that you live your life within the bounds of your belief system. Think if I had some one to follow me around and constantly remind me to do the right thing.

The only flaw with this system is that I am stubborn. And I like being naughty.

Here I am kissing Batman (Craiger). The Moulin Rouge soundtrack was playing in the background. It. Was. So. Gay. 

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I don't care what anyone says. I think that Uma should play Dominique and/or Dagny.  

One time when I was a kid, my mother told me that if a dog ever attacked me, I could puncture its lungs with car keys shoved in between my fists.

“It would be pretty hard to bite you if it had a pneumothorax.”

This is where I came from.

Walking on campus this week, while fingering my cell phone antenna in my hoodie, I just happened to realize that it would make a very good weapon. It might even kill an unsuspecting mugger.

As if this thought wasn’t enough to make me fear for my waning sanity, I had a disturbing realization today. A human could be mortally injured with just about any household item. I could bludgeon a burglar with my 25 lb jug of laundry detergent. I could spray keyboard cleaning aerosol in an attacker’s face. I could immobilize a Mexican ninja with…well, you get the picture.

Have I been watching too much Alias you ask? No. I can stop anytime.

But I have been reading Ms. Bees Knees. (Chanting: I am a sassy bee. I am a sassy bee)And that is a fatal flaw.

Tiffany! Cartier!

My lab presentation went really well today. A presentation at work. I am *so* grown up.

After my voice lesson this afternoon, I am going to have a pot-luck Thanksgiving dinner with my roomies and assorted other people I like. I have been pretty busy with work this semester, so it is good to have some time to spend relaxing with my friends before everyone leaves for break.

Then later, Craiger and I are going to see ‘Arry Paw’uh. I am so freakin’ excited.

And I don't care

Had a busy weekend with the Opera production and such. It went really well, and I am glad that it is done.

Afterwards on Saturday night, Craig and I went to a cast party/free Tibet party. Lots of opera kids and peacies with Mohawks. A very bizarre scene, there must have been 150 people there, and despite being drop-dead tired, I managed to mingle and make some new friends.

Unfortunately I don’t have much exciting to say, just that a physics test and a lab meeting are the only things looming over my head for the rest of the week.

Well, it’s finally settled, I am going to Puerto Rico for two weeks before the end of Christmas break. I guess the pay isn’t that great, but seriously, I couldn’t ask for more than being in a tropical climate during the coldest part of the Missouri winter. I plan on getting a tan, catching some bugs, and loving corn. But how weird, I’m so sorry.

I am looking forward to seeing Draco :cough, cough: I mean Harry Potter on Friday. Which makes me a big frickin’ gay nerd.

Marla was a tourist. 

So there!

Have you ever had a dream in which you have sex with a friend? Or even an acquaintance? Perhaps someone you find 0% attractive?

When you see them the next day, after you have imagined them in the most compromising of situations, saying the most intimate things, what do you do? Make unwavering eye-contact?

For me, what usually ensues, the morning after some completely malapropos rêve, is a genuinely awkward moment. And those come along so infrequently, I can’t help but wallow in them.

Autumn Vignette

Very lazy weekend.

Bagged frozen scrambled egg disks at the food bank on Saturday. It actually was pretty fun. Bizzare as all get out, but fun. Didn’t do much homework, had opera rehearsal tonight. This is production week, and it is going to kick my ass. Not much I can do about that.

Grabbed coffee with Rachel this afternoon, and as often is the case, our conversation eventually degraded into speculating about vowel modification. After discussing a vowel we try it, making the sound, and watching each others lips. People around us must think we are crazy.

Also spent about 2 sublime hours lying with Craig on a blanket in the sun.

Craig: Come play with me! (throws handfuls of leaves into the air, while kicking back legs out like a ballerina)

Me: No. You are acting like a little kid. (mock scolding)

Craig: Why won’t you play with me? Come play. (He throws another handful of leaves, his shirt rides up exposing his stomach. Back leg kick.)

Fire and music

Last night was so much fun. I took a much needed study break and went with Craig to Teller’s where we met up with DJ, Ryan, Chris, Travis, Michelle, and Joel. TJ also came later, and was bossy-tipsy, so much fun was had by all. I learned a new word too. Spaped: Spoon-raped. Theriously, wtf? I was even in bed before 1:30AM, so I could get up and make a sight singing quiz today and a physics quiz.

I have MMTA this afternoon, but since I got all my jitters out last weekend at NATS, I am just looking forward to performing with my good friend Rachel A.

Was it just Tuesday that I was walking to class in the rain, listening to Poulenc and Brahms? Today is such a beautiful day…after my lab meeting and competition this afternoon I plan on spending some time with Craig rolling through the piles of red, orange and yellow leaves. How picturesque. Is there, is there Balm in Gilead? (Tell me, tell me, I implore.)

I would fain die a dry death

Tired. Have to pay $26 to overnight music because I am lazy, and didn’t plan ahead for MMTA. However, my financial situation is looking up; I have more than $2600 dollars in my checking account because the refund fairies graced me with their presence this month. So Yay for that.

My mapping project is falling apart, I have to go back and find data from previous rotation students. Which means, that once again, I found out that my quantitative PCR mapping project from Hell is not over. Again.

To boost my morale, I have begun accepting applications for a personal cheerleader. And I do know some *gaiyes*, so I better start tryouts soon.

PS—last night was fucking fabulous. I woke up this morning at 10:30 reeking of gin and had to book-it to my voice lesson. Gawd, I can’t wait to see those pictures.

I love puppies.

So it has been a long time since I updated. Basically I spent all this week studying for my 4 tests: entomology, physics, ear training, and insect diversity.

In other news I am recovering for a personal crisis: last weekend I freaked the fuck out for no apparent reason. Thank you Rachel and Craig for putting up with my neuroses, I don’t know what I would do without you guys.

This week I have been house-sitting for my boss who is in Mexico with her partner on vacation. Besides having to deal with a very naughty lab puppy, it has been a blast. I could really get used to living in the suburbs. I have neighbors who talk to me. A newspaper comes everyday on the front lawn. There are more than 3 rooms in the house. I seriously can't wait until I grow up.

Oh. I went to an underwear party on Monday (yay for being hung over for class on a Tuesday morning), and hopefully I can post pics soon. Although I felt very out-of-place being the only "ghey", it was so much fun! I will just say this: when I was straight, no hot girls ever drank beer out of the front of my briefs. Le sigh.

My dad is coming up for the Nebraksa game tomorrow, so I think that should be fun.

Leaving for the gym, TTFN.

Last week marked the six month anniversary of Craig and me. I am surprised (very happily I might add) that we have made it this far. And trust me, all the odds were against us.


I think our relationship can be summed up (how fittingly) by the Janet Jackson song Love Will Never do Without You.

They said it wouldn't last, we had to prove them wrong.
'Cause I've learned in the past that love would never do without you.

Thanks for 6 wonderful months baby.

legions of legends

Instead of regaling you with stories of my random activities (80’s night, Corpse Bride, staying in bed till 2PM) from this weekend, I thought I would write about some ideas I have been milling over recently.

1)When I went home last weekend, I read some National Review (my favorite magazine). For those of you who don’t know NR is basically the political polar opposite of The New Republic (shudder, spit). I spotted an add for the complete collections of Florence King’s columns. Her back page spot ‘The Misanthrope’s Corner’ ran for about 12 years—I even wrote her fan mail one time. She was a Southern lady, with impeccable taste—she often appeared on the covers of her books holding a Phyllis Diller-like cigarette holder. (She wrote Reflections Through a Jaundiced Eye, With Malice Towards all and Charity Towards None.)

The appearance of Florence made me congeal a theory I have been developing for years. I know others have said it before, but here goes. Basically it is this: Conservatives hate people. This ‘curmudgeon factor’ is what has really drawn me to this amalgam of nihilist-libertarian-conservatism.

2)I want to be Jake Shears.

3)The Kennedy’s, Bushes, and the Clintons are sleazy for one reason: the have made a career out of being politicians. I don’t believe in altruism, and therefore they have to be faking it too.

4) I know schizophrenia is a horrible, debilitating disease, but I think it would be awesome to be a schizo for a day. I mean, hallucinations, delusions of grandeur, and illogical cognitive processes. Seriously people, what’s not to like?

5)People should not allow Manda and me to hang out anymore. It's just gotten out of control.

Referring to sorority girl walking past us on the sidewalk tonight:

Me: My ankles are perpetually cold due to the gap between my ugg boots and bottom of my cuffed jeans.

Manda: My upper-thighs have frostbite due to the fact that I wear super mini skirt in winter.

Me: My labia is cold in the winter because my low-rise pink sweat pants don't cover it.

Manda: I can't buy pants to cover my rotten crotch.

Me: I am laughing so hard I gave myself an asthma attack.

Typical convo in transit this weekend:

Ed: Yeah, he is so boring. Like white toast. No butter, no jelly.

Manda: Yeah, he would be interesting if he were fuh-black.

Ed: Oh, like faux-black?

Manda: Yeah.

Ed: Yeah, now he’s just fuh-cool.

Manda: Yeah, he’s fuh-a-decent-person.

Ed: Stop the car! I am dying of bitchiness.

[Edit: Manda's blog depicting our descent into the superficial and caustic. We are two vipers.]

Weekend plans (wow, a title of an entry that actually has some functional purpose)

This weekend I am going home to see my family. Three years ago, I never would have thought that I would be willingly going back home.

I plan to spend *all* of Saturday sitting in a chair in our backyard under the warm orange light of the autumn sun, eating wild berry skittles, and listening to Brahms.

“Ah, the pathos.”

The only thing missing will be Craiger.

To clarify

(def): Snakewalking: verb; to walk in a slinking or undulating fashion, usually while listening to music on an iPod. Perfected by Nick D’Angelo circa 2003. In a sentence: “Look at that snakewalking fuck.”

I had a really good day today. And I just thought all of you should know. Because Lord knows I do a lot of bitching…and I don’t mean to be so negative all the time.

The sun was all like “I think I will shine today” and I was listening to Café Tacuba while snake-walking from FAB and I saw an Indian woman and her baby sitting on a park bench. I suppose it is the little things that count.

Also I was reminded of this link from Flesh’s blog: wintertime sorority girl. Like the one in my Physics class, who the day before our first hour exam didn’t know what the gravitational constant was (and also totally oblivious as to why 300 people were laughing at her).

Tracy Flick-types make life worth living sometimes.

Warm, Warmer, Disco

Bizarre weekend.

Watched Pulp Fiction on Friday with Mands. I forgot, that movie has almost as many good one-liners as Fight Club.

“Did you see a sign on my house that said ‘Dead Nigger Storage’?”

Picked up trash hella early on Saturday morning (I swear it wasn’t for community service). Now I bear an unholy grudge against anyone who throws their cigarette butts on the sidewalk 3 feet from a trash can.

Played around with my iTalk and marveled at is splenderificity in conjunction with my new 20 GB color iPod. God, I am turning into such a technology-whore. A magpie that lines my nest with more shiny gadgets than I can ever use.

Decided not to go to the Brothel party and instead watched Crash. And after listening to Portis Head all day *and* going to Wal-Mart, I was pretty depressed. The world can be such a fucking ugly place sometimes.

But like any good conservative-libertarian (I walked out on the first day of International Relations freshman year when the professor made a snide comment about Reagan) I have decided to ignore the unsightly malignancy that is America and instead chose to numb my pain with an excruciating 37 mile bike ride to the Missouri River this afternoon on a bike seat not much wider than Paris Hilton’s nose.

I will keep you updated on whether or not I ever regain feeling in my taint.

This is a picture of Craig and me way earlier this summer at the Vu.

Speaking of clubs, I am never going to SoCo, no matter how many times I am harassed by Eric, you Mexican-cake-blog queen. Supposedly they are way uptight. They are a gay club (albeit in the middle of Missouri) and they won't even let you take off your shirt. How ron-dank-u-lous! Craig blames the rule on angry lesbians, but, as I have been reminded lately, gays have become the new straight. Dressing like frat boys, having commitment ceremonies, and making up retarded puritanical restrictions on other people's freedoms. That's right. As I recall from sleeping through AP US History in High School, the freedom to be topless is somewhere in the bill of rights.

So busy

My only respite today will be riding my bike to another night class, while listening to Janet Jackson (Miss Jackson if you're nasty) on my iPod. (I lament that I am a hobo)

I am skinny and I don't care

You can dance for inspiration

Saturday night included getting very trashed on Bacardi 151, and going with blue-haired Craig to Shattered where they played Get Into the Groove, Rhythm Nation, and Wave of Mutilation. Could retro night get any gayer?

‘Mos were out in full force. OMG. They are taking over. There are no breeders left. This saddens me.

The rest of the weekend was a lethargic blur of 20+ mile bike rides, countless hours of practicing, notecard making, studying, and tamale rolling with lesbians from work, who, by the way, rock my frickin' face off.

More than once, I was reminded that I was the MAN-ual labor. Out of control.

You're maudlin and full of self-pity. You're magnificent!

Recently I have begun to wonder why I am attracted so much to older men/women. Some reasons may be:

I like someone who knows what they want.
Older people, generally speaking of course, interest me more.

But really, I think the reason is I like to be an Eve Harrington of sorts.

Margo: “Lovely speech, Eve. But I wouldn't worry so much about your haht. You can always put that award where your haht ought to be.”

"A foot stamping on a human face forever!"

I am full of dollar burgers from CBAG, and thus my brain isn’t working. This should explain the following post. I write it on no pretenses of having a cohesive thread.

*The amaretto double shots (size large, please) from Trops have a deceptively large amount of alcohol in them. Beware!

*After watching Batman Begins, I was a moderate fan of Christian Bale. After watching The Machinist, I am a rabid fan of Christian Bale. He isn’t beautiful by any means, but he is interesting looking, and I like that. Like Milla Jovovich or Uma. Also, The Machinist makes me feel better about my body—I don’t feel so skinny anymore. You know how the camera is supposed to add 10 lbs to your picture? I have always had the opposite experience. It subtracts 10 lbs, and when I see pictures of me I am always like, “Damn. That bitch needs to eat.”

*Craig: “Mozart is like the Britney Spears of the classical period. Talented, but a whore.”

*My friend Eric is a starting a cake blog, in which he posts a pic of the new cake he bakes every week this semester. What, you ask if he’s gay? How ever did you know?

*I have spent the last week finishing The Western Lands and apprehensively eyeing my insect collection on my desk. I am *so* afraid it will eat me. What is it with Burroughs and the ‘ick’ factor?

I'm sorry in advance

"Jesus has a holy hatred for you!"

I swear to gawd, I was sober

As promised I posted some pics from Miranda and my sledding experience earlier this summer.

After wild debauchery (dumpster diving) and having our courage bolstered by a successful stick-throwing coup against the roaming hordes of raccoons in *our* garbage cans, we found a most priceless treasure: the wicker basket bottom to an enormous papasan chair.

We ended up tying said papasan to my car with a length of extension chord, padding the seat, and sledding around in the parking lot at speeds up to 20 mph. It was random- dangerous-bizarre. As I seem to remember someone (not mentioning any names…) couldn’t walk the next day from the bruises on her ankles.

Miranda, who gets my even heavily veiled pop culture references, will be in DC until some time in the distant future. We will miss her.

(at shattered)
Me: I will push that queen down the steps so fast…There is always someone more ambitious behind you on the stairs…
Miranda: OMG! What is that from. Is it Showgirls?
Me: Yes. Yes! Bff?
Mirs: Ok.

uh, yeah, that is us with the chair held on through the sunroof of to the top of my 1985 black lincoln town car. 

mirs captaining our ship 

Is it all full? I am playful.

This week has been pretty laid back. Not much news (Ed translation: I am still going to drag this out into an actual entry)

Here’s a run-down:

My roommate Aaron fought the law. And the law won. Clickity-clack here.

Went to the Blue Fugue (AKA Music Café) to see Chris, Rachel’s beau play in his band Los Desderados. Chris is from [edit: Memphis] (not Nashville), and plays the harmonica like no one’s business. Got to see Jesse and Rachel salsa dance along with a bellydancer and Old Blue, the 5 foot tall bearded ‘Nam vet that was a gopher in the war. Seriously, he is five feet tall. With a beard. Think Snow white and the seven dwarves.

Lots of positive energy, will go back again soon.

Listened to a lot of Bryn Terfel singing RVW. Now I wish I had a head like a grizzly bear.

Listened to a lot of the sublime Thomas Quasthoff singing Brahms. Thanked god I am not a thalidomide baby.

Excited to no end, but also very nervous to be cast as the big DG in our opera scenes.

That is all.

Ranting (excuse me)

Uh. The rec center was so busy. I suppose it was my fault for going at 4PM though. The new rec is like a spaceship, but I wish that instead of spending a million dollars to plaster every vertical surface with 3 foot plasma TVs, (in which to blast me with bad rap alternated with gawd-awful rap) they would have just put in twice as many machines. The only thing I value is my time.

Filled to the brim with pretty boys who were all e.nor.mous tools. (Read: “I am Carson Daly and I’m a massive tool.”) What straight man gels his hair, spritzes cologne, and dons the perfect shoulder-revealing cut-off shirt to go the gym to work out with other guys? I mean seriously. Why are you sitting on a machine for 10 minutes at a time (not doing a single rep) with the look on your face of, “Hm. I wonder how gay I can look and dress without actually doing guys?” I just wanted to shout, “You don’t realize yet, but all of you, yes all of you, secretly love cock.”

I guess I am spoiled. My mental image of a hetero man is my Dad. Working out in the same unfashionable non-descript gym clothes for 15+ years, having a hairy chest, and a medium sized bald spot that didn’t bother him one bit. Even though he could bench press 300+ lbs plus, he never took off his shirt—even in 100۫ weather. He could kick just about any of the student’s asses that ever set foot in the gym (including most of the football players—which most seasons, wasn’t saying much).

Blah, blah, blah

Busy but productive day so far. I woke up with a frickin’ killer caffeine withdrawl headache so I have been appropriately medicating myself all morning.

Black sludgey coffee= my drug of choice.

Mundane: After working out, practicing, physics lab, and homework I will be done with my obligatory protestant guilt load of tasks for the day.

Not Mundane: Tonight I get to see Craig, so I am uber-excited since I haven’t seen him since Sunday afternoon. Wow. A song lyric comes to mind: you're gonna have to face it, you're addicted to [Craiger’s] love.

Home Depot, Bed Bath and Beyond

Today I slept in then went shopping with Aaron for some home décor. More than once I made allusions to the fact that I was shopping for antiques with my life-partner. You, know. Old gays do that sort of thing. Aaron was not amused.

We spent ~90 bucks for 8 vintage magazine covers and advertisements and such for our living room. A very frugal and satisfying day I might say. Hopefully pics to follow.

Later this afternoon, I went to park on rock quarry to collect some specimens (oh! How smart do I sound?) for my Insect Diversity class. When I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than to become and entomologist. Although, I have different career aspirations now, I sure do like me a good bug hunt.

Caught about 9 species of Lepidoptera, 10+ of Orthoptera, 9+ Hymenoptera (I smooshed a bee just for you Ms Knees), and some Coleoptera, Hemiptera, and Diptera to round out the day. Ok, so I am a bug nerd. I know.

After I practice some, I am going to play poker with Laura, Anson, Aaron, and Craig—and then we might go to Shattered. I don’t know. I don’t know how much time we’ll have.

How much do I love postsecret?

This is kind of serious, read at own risk:

Last night after a late night run to the sto’ w/ Mands, (in which I bought, among other things, a discount ice-cream maker) I had a pretty serious convo.

While downloading season 1 of Queer as Folk (I don’t really like it—but find it amusing to no end), and being simultaneously chided by Craig—ever mindful of the superficial tripe that often characterizes young gay men, Manda said, “You think you are better than every one else.”

She didn’t intend for it to sound vindictive or mean-spirited, and I didn’t take it that way. But I realized that I used to feel that way, and I have matured a lot since then.

In high school (and some of college, let’s be honest), I was a total egotist (not an egoist, thankyou Ayn for inventing another word). I was smart and therefore felt isolated and different than most people I knew in the po-dunk town I grew up in. To compensate for feeling like a smart-freak, I negated everyone else’s existence because they didn’t satisfy my standard of self –worth: an intellectual meritocracy.

But after meeting some very open-minded people here in Columbia (like my good friend Rachel A) I have decided to amend my personal credo. Each person decides to aspire to their own standard of existence. And some people don’t find that a life of intellectual self-absorption is a worthy goal. And some people are at (to avoid sounding like a High School X-country coach I know) different places along their journey through life.

So I concede that it would be unjust to judge someone according to my own standards. Which is not to say that I am going to stop altogether being a judgmental-pompous ass. Because, after all, that is what I do. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can appreciate other people’s desires and accept their value systems. So that is a good thing right?

Anyway, I’m so sorry for being so serious. How unlike me, shit!

I should just write another entry in the same shallow and jaded vein that has characterized my posts recently. I’ll write something about my tight, go-go “boi” underwear, my newest American-consumerish purchase, or my obsession with gay pornstars.

PS: updates on the fabulosity of my ice-cream maker. It even makes sorbets! Which I plan to concoct of plethora of, to cleanse my palate between courses of my college-student fare of bologna sandwiches and ramen noodles.

(Mands: “Yes. Yes! I can taste the bologna much better!”)

pouty pirate no more

Today:
Opera was phenomenal, Craig made dinner, and played croquet with Aaron-Seestar-Matt-Lane. Good times was had by all.

Sorry I can’t go into details right now, but I just got *the* sweetest, most considerate gift from Craiger. I am so not worthy!

So if I look like, as bees likes to call it: "hammered shit", it is because someone (who shall remain nameless) woke me up at 7:30AM this morning and wouldn't stop touching me. But then this someone made a breakfast egg burrito (laugh it up Mrs) and all was well with the world.

Long day. (Mad props to Mands for the photog skilz.)

I requested the honey that comes in the bear, not the jar

Picture of me making said green tea smoothies. Here is the link to the recipe. Enjoy. (PS-my kitchen is totally white trash.) I needed some distraction after listening to my *foreign* physics TA take an hour and half to explain the concept of standard deviation. Uh. (And PS: Mands says hi...and "shut the fuck up". JK. Really.)

Rainy day, not much happening

Second day of school is over and I am already exhausted. I am picking out some awesome lit for this semester. Poulenc’s Chanson Gailliards are amazing.

Played croquet last night and then Craig and I went to a dress-up party at Nick-Nat-Kyle’s. My ensemble turned out to be sort of Agent Smith like. Very skinny black tie, white dress shirt, black skinny pants. It was fittingly emo.

Met some really cool people, and caught up with some old friends. Nothing will ever change: Nick, despite having *no* class, will always continue to amuse, and Natalie will continue to put up with his shit.

I am waiting on pictures to be sent to me, so you, yes you, shiver in antici…pation at the thought of actual photographs of me.

My mom also sent me a letter (my favorite thing in the world to get), and she is as crazy as ever. A close family friend just had twins, and so she sent me a letter updating:

“Whee! Babies doing great (basically term), Rachel VERY SORE (C-section—I remember after Rebecca—AACK! Not the preferred way to deliver)
XO
Mom


It is my mother’s duty to evaluate the quality of medical care received by everyone in the world, and that is why we love her so. Le sigh.

formula for success/recipe for disaster

2 gin/rasberrry vodkas + 2 LIIT + shot of orange something + Craiger= happy Ed

PS. school starts tommorrow, and I am going out Monday night. Underage drinking is, as flesh would say, "boss".

Ok, here’s a list:

I am *so* over U-singers. I am all about Opera Studio.

I am *so* over Batman Begins. I am all about Sin City.

I am *so* over Protien shakes. I am all about Green Tea smoothies.

I am *so* over calling men who dress as women ‘drag queens’. I am all about calling them ‘female impersonators’. Like in Victor/Victoria. That’s right.

Chorus Boy [#2]: If he's a Polish count, I'm Greta Garbo.
Admirer at rehearsal: [cooing] Well, Greta, whatever he is, I think he's divine.

Moonage Daydream

After a fiasco beyond my wildest fears, I finally got my pictures back. Since I took the disposable camera on my float trip, the pictures turned out sort of water damaged.

My film is like the water book in Peter Greenaway’s Prospero’s Books—a rendition of The Tempest. In the movie, the book contains pictures of water that move, and drops spill out of the pages of the book when it is opened. Layered water upon water.

I am off to work, then Rolla (ug!). Be back Thursday for some serious drinking.

a view of the sunset (it doesn't look it, but it was seriously fucking cold) Sad face. And I still got burned. WTF? 

the beach where I slept under the beach-ball balloon water tower on the first  

my first view of the ocean(gulf) 

fastidious/elegiac/restless

OMG. The Chausson piano trio in g minor is abso-fucking-lutely sublime. (The whole step chord progression at the end of the pas trop lent is spelled M-o-d-e-s-t M-u-s-s-o-r-g-s-k-y)
That is all.

drown me slowy (pleading: enclose me)

I had an ocean dream last night. In which I was over my head in dark gray sea at night, with no moon or stars to see by. I gasped for air, and struggled to the surface but the pull of the salty, icy waves and the song of the sea were too strong. But how bizarre, I’m so sorry.

Thick as stars at night when the moon is down,
Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fateFares;
and but waves a hand as he passes on,
Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate,
Sings but a boyish stave--and his face is gone.


PS. I love moving. (and his face is gone)

nerd=ed

Is there anything better than lying in your bed in your underwear until noon, eating Breyers mint-chocolate chip ice cream, listening to Ravel and Chausson piano trios, and reading about Chromatin dynamics at DNA replication?

Salvation/torture/extasy

I don’t know if I have ever been up this early on a Saturday of my own accord ever before. I had my iced latte and I am fucking invincible!

What today holds:
Hardcore exercising
Semi-clothed iPod dancing
Ensemble shopping for tonight
Practicing/picking out new lit
Reading publications/The Western Lands
Donning galoshes and splashing around in puddles, all the while laughing manically
Falling (hard) off my caffeine high in 10 minutes

a giraffe, and a bathtub full of brightly colored tools

Since procuring an iPod mini on Monday (thanks Mands! Let me be yo managah!) I can’t fit enough of me dancing in my tight, gray, gogo-‘boi’ underwear to Audioslave, Madonna, and David Bowie in my livingroom. Just like in the ads.

I am seriously considering moving around my time at work to fit some more said underwear dancing into my day.

Your time has come!

Le profond

Tonight Rachel and I went to Booches. When asked by the Michael Stipe impersonating waiter what I wanted to eat, I said, “I’ll have a Guinness”. I love buhr.

Later I’m going to practice some and then go riding on my bike into the dark. Or the unknown. “The unknown” sounds so much more poetic.

Suffragette City

So I have been a little incommunicado lately. Here’s the run-down:

When I woke up on Saturday morning, I heard a crow cawing outside my window. I hadn’t seen or heard a crow all summer, so I knew instantly this must be a very bad omen. A crow, really! How, biblical.

The power also went off on Saturday morning, so my computer was totally unfunctional and extremely fucked up. No internet makes nerds have *sad* faces. Should I blame XP or the power? Who knows, but since my bro works for the ‘great whore of Babylon’, aka Microsoft, I expect *heads* to roll. 4 days and $37.50 later, it works, but I am still bitter. Le sigh.

My car is also on the fritz. Battery or alternator? Hmm, I can change a tire, it’s true, but they ‘gheys’ aren’t too good with cars. So, I have to fix that before I can get my registration/license renewed. Which means, in the near future I get to deal with the DMV, or as I like to call it, ‘Satan’s asshole’.

I came home Monday to find my air conditioner leaking all over my kitchen floor, but the maintenance in my apartment fixed it within an hour, so after the week that I have been having, I was thanking god that there was someone competent left in the world.

Oh, and I hurt my hand working out on Tuesday, (and no Baron Flesh VonWintoor, I did not pull a muscle “pleasuring” myself, so you can get that idea right out of your head, you filthy Canadian hooker). So I basically couldn’t type, pick up things, or you know, do *anything* right-handed for 2 days.

A crow. The harbinger of doom.

Other than that, life is purr-fect. Craig’s 2nd wife is in town this week, and next week his 1st wife is town. And then his girlfriend is coming back to town. Good Lord, that pretty boy is a magnet for fag-hags (Ms Bees: stay away from my man or I will strangle you with your own pink fishnets).

So, sometime in the near future (I don’t even set deadlines anymore), I will post pictures from float trip, Kristin’s birthday, the house party at the brothel, my spring break, and naked sprinkler-soaked Ed pictures. Don’t hassle me about them, I already know that I am a Satanic lie-peddler, and will spend the rest of my life in procrastinator purgatory.

Love!

So, come up to the lab...see what's on the slab?

OMG. So much happening (none of it very exciting), but I am was too guilty to update because of me being a moron and repeatedly forgetting that I have film that the world needs to see. Here is some random musings:

Got my hair cut today, and listened to the old guy talk about “retards making violins”. He brought it up, because, being a good barber, when I told him I was a bio/music double major, he felt obligated to tell his one music story.

When people talk about music, it cracks me up. Basically because I think everyone’s taste is inferior because it isn’t mine.

Recent observations:
1)Haydn string quartets are more mundane than musak. I hates them.

2)Audioslave, although they will never be able to hold a candle to RATM, are all good musicians and made some pretty good material for their latest album.

3)Columbia NPR sucks a great deal of ass. KCOU (the pseudo-indie-college-emo station) however, is the only thing that keeps me from gouging out my eyes at work.

Craig and I have been talking about what we are going as for Halloween. He thinks that we should do batman and robin…for obvious reasons (I am kind of twinky and he is kind of Ken-doll). I have a much better idea though.

I think he should be Rocky, and I should be Dr. Frankenfurter. Unfortuntely, he does not like drag queens. [Edit: Alexis screaming "blasphemy!"]They don’t really hold a special place in my heart, but goddamn! Tim Curry has “nice stems”.

I see you shiver with antici…(say it!)…pation.

Later tonight, I am going to overcome my fears of swimming in quarries, as Craig and I will be skinny-dipping. The whole time I will be thinking, “This is the part of the movie when the gay guy gets killed.” Wish me luck.

Colorful clothing in the sun...

Tonight, after raucous dumpster diving, Rachel played an hours worth of Bach sonatas while I laid on her living floor looking through a clear plastic umbrella at the overhead light.

We were competing with the loud late summer cicadas whose screeching was a deafening roar outside her little house in the woods.

At particularly humorous moments, like a ridiculously prolonged sequence, or some surprising or unexpected harmonic progression, we both cackled like maniacs, clearly pleased with ourselves for finding Bach so entertaining.

I miss Rachel.

More updates soon, I promise. I am just waiting on pictures from my recent float trip, dumpster diving with Mirs, etc. Oh, and PS, I am getting my spring break pics developed, so you all can see my first view of the ocean. Or gulf.

Technicalities.

This is one of the funniest pictures I have ever seen. I downloaded it a while ago, and it was my desktop for all of freshmen year—I don’t know if you guys heard about this a couple years ago.

Giselle Bundchen, the most beautiful woman on the planet (ok…maybe she is tied for that title with Uma Thurman) is sabotaged by some dykey, no-make-up-wearing, little mouse of a PETA activist. She is wearing a brown tweed jacket over what looks like olive green slacks that have a dark black racing stripe down the side. Call me crazy, but I would dress up a bit more if I was protesting something.

I think probably the funniest thing is that if you look at Giselle, you can’t tell whether her pissed off face is because she is being humiliated by a nature-worshipping flannel-bedecked ogre, or whether that is the usual look on her face when she “walks” (as they use the term in the modeling world…so I hear.)

The next second, a security guard is shown tackling the PETA-skank off of the runway, and her straight, un-high-lighted, limp brown hair is caught momentarily sticking straight out like a flailing baby’s arms due to the impact of the hefty security guard. The fashionistas even applauded when the PETA protesters were pushed off the platform! Were they hurt? Who knows…but the fact that the fashion industry would care more about squelching a fur protest than caring about human life makes this catty bitch smile. Oh, god. PETA lost big on this one.

I, in my ever cynical, malevolent, sense of humor, have one pronouncement: Goddamn priceless.

Making love with his ego, Ziggy sucked up into his mind

Last night was hil-a-rious. Went to Shattered with Craig, Miranda, Jesse, and Michael, a guy that Craig met on “whore-dot-com”.

Michael just moved here and didn’t know anyone, so I, of course, decided to make a round with him and see if we couldn’t find him a guy.

Cher to Ty: “Let's do a lap before we commit to a location.”

Unfortunately, the couple we bumped into (A&J) turned out to be some slutty, creepy, popped-collar-midget-queens that wanted to “take him home”. As if.

Anyway, lest you all call me shallow (Dionne “No, Cher! Not to your face.”—ok, I will stop with the Clueless references…really) I will tell you what else I have been up to lately.

Occasionally, I like to go chronologically through artists’ careers (as I did with Led Zeppelin) to better get a feel for their development of their work. My current project is David Bowie. Thanks to my enabler limewire and internet music piracy, I have gotten through Ziggy Stardust today.

L'attente

The last few days have been spent working, sleeping, and reading Harry Potter (gasp! Could that ending be right?), which I finished this morning at 2:30AM. I was so tired I slept through my alarm clock…I was supposed to go bike riding with Darrell at 8AM on the MKT trail. I saw him a couple of days ago when me and the ‘mos were bowling. Darrell, incomprehensible and inscrutable as always, was rambling about how he was becoming white trash. Bowling on Thursday nights and skipping work to go see Journey and such.

“And so this guy that I work with called and said, “Steve Perry is back with Journey! We are skipping work tomorrow!”

Last night I cooked dinner with Eryn and we sat and watched the Pretender with Janet. We do love us some Michael T Weiss.

This afternoon Lane and I played 3+ hours of croquet. The heat index is about 110˚--I am currently rehydrating to prepare for the dehydration that is to occur tonight—Shattered! I can stop anytime I want, so you can just stop your nay-saying.

As you see, my life is consisting of more and more mundane events, happenings, and thoughts. Such is summer.

Oh, PS. I hope to post some pics of me soon. I know, I know. You can hardly wait.

PostSecret

Sorry I caused such a tizzy with my last post. Scandulositiy is not what I strive for…ok, who am I kidding?--yes it is.

Speaking of secrets: if I haven’t already raved to you about this site, you should check it out now. Of course, as many good and worthy things in my life, Rachel A introduced it to me way back last winter. We thank her for that.

Totally fascinating.

Mort Exquise

There is a certain time of dusk, when the sun has disappeared behind the horizon, but the sky is still very light, awash in pastel blue, when I have a glaring, unnerving moment of fleeting clarity.

Tonight it was 8:43PM, and I was driving in my car and listening to the Scherzo from Schubert’s Death and the Maiden. What, you ask, was my epiphany?

Sorry, even I have some secrets.

Shhh! Drama.

Not much has happened the last few days—so thus my lack of updates. I mean, I have been busy, but my going-ons don’t really lend themselves to my outrageously overactive imagination.

Saturday night, Craig and I went to Michelle’s (Rachel’s little sister) party. We get a call half way there with an ominous pronouncement: “We have lingerie and jewelry.” Of course this whipped us into a frenzy, and by the time we arrived at Michelle’s doorstep, we were both salivating heavily.

Michelle and Dalton (her jazz piano playing bf) just moved back from NY, where Dalton finished school. Michelle decorated her house on a shoestring (and don’t laugh, I am *not* a queen)—it was absolutely gorgeous. Mirrors and colorful 1950’s advertisements lined the walls. And on the floor of the living room, was an enormous pile of Bonnie’s jewelry and lingerie, which she had willed to Michelle.

Bonnie is Dalton’s 40-something mother. She embodies all that is fab-u-lous. She has 7-inch tall, lacquered solid, Texas-cheerleader hair, she is a part-time cross-country coach, and a dance instructor. The first time I met her, she was bedecked in tight white sailor pants, a skin-tight jean jacket studded with rhinestones (made out of her grandfather’s overalls), huge gold-spangly high heels, and an abundance of charm bracelets and heavy, pendulous gold chains, and a matching bow perched jauntily on the side of her head. After several glasses of sweet wine, she couldn’t refrain from braking into dance steps at Rachel’s house (“5-6-7-8! And step. And back. And walk-the-dog. And brake it down. And hold!)

I never met anyone more over-the-top than Bonnie. She is ri-goddamn-diculous. And, we love her.

Anyway, we spent most of Saturday night drinking, avoiding the annoying queen Kevin (Craig was glad he was there—he made us look *so* straight), bedecked in gaudy jewelry, and marveling over how racy a 40+ year old’s panties could be.

The night ended with Craig getting the numbers of 2 very attractive and flirty straight girls who are dancers at Stephens. We promised to call them next weekend and go dancing with them at Shattered. I can’t wait.

I made my grand exit at 2:30 AM by hurtling two very unripe limes at the queen (who was wearing pearls that “did not suit madam well” and dancing to gawd-awful Britney Spears) and then stumbling to Craig’s car.

Sunday morning, Craig left just before my roommate, his sister, and their mother came to the apartment. I was still in my briefs…I shudder to think what would have happened if they had shown up 15 minutes earlier. Scandalous doesn’t begin to describe what would have ensued.

The rest of Sunday was spent lounging in my skivvies, eating grilled cheese and tomato soup, and a fruit platter. Yes, I said fruit platter. I read Harry Potter most of the day, and contemplated how good it was to finally have a day off—I had worked 13 days straight. Most of them I had to get up at <7AM for work.

Tonight I am going to read, practice, see Craiger, and play some fucking croquet. That’s right bitches! Bye. And Love!

Mon 'canon' c'est l'instinct

Not much to blog about today. Spent 5 hours in the field this morning in 98% humidity. Ed was not happy.

Oh, and by the way, boxcutters are sharp, as evidenced by the fact that I cut the shit out of my thumb this morning with one. I contemplated telling you all that I sliced myself with a jewel-encrusted letter-opener as I opened a box of hurricane-appropriate chiffon gowns sent to me “the” Mrs. Astor (That dirty birdie!) packed in ostrich egg cartons. But, there is a limit to how much ridiculous OTT (over the top) gay shit you all will put up with.

So I thought better of it.
On an unrelated note: Happy Bastille Day to all the cheese-eating surrender monkeys. I sho' do love some frenchies! (The title of this post is a quote of Poulenc's. "My 'article of faith' is instinct." How fitting.)

speaking little, perhaps not a word

Much fun was had today: I went to work, had a good lesson, played croquet with Rachel and Lane (they rock!), discussed the different methods of obliterating the planet and talked about the shape of the universe, called Alan to discuss said shape of the universe, fixed dinner, and read some publications. I am also seeing Craig tonight. Yippee!

On a totally unrelated note: to me, my “unscented” deodorant stick smells like lime gin. How much of an alcoholic am I?

O God, I can stop whenever I want.

After that, Dion's virginity went from technical to non-existent

When we went to the Vu Thursday night, Laura, Amanda and I sneaked by the underage-drinking-Nazis because Caren knew Dorothy, a girl that works there.

When our waitress came up to us she asked, “Are you friends of Dorothy?”

After a split-second glance at Craig I said, “Yeah, we are disco dancing, cake walking, Oscar Wilde reading, friends of Dorothy.” You see, I had not been introduced yet, and so I thought she was referring to our ‘mo status. We were all embarrassed for me.

Clueless is the pinnacle of Western society.

Underage drinking rocks my fucking socks off

Having the willpower to drag my drunk/hungover ass to work on a Sunday morning at 7:30AM is boss.

However, waking up and smelling like vomit because I puked all over my bed last night, is not.

Note to all: I am on self-destruct mode. You have been warned.

Let's Get After It

Last weekend, my friend Manda and I went fireworks shopping. It is a little tradition of ours to seek out ridiculous and suggestive names for fireworks. My perennial favorites usually include thinly veiled sexual innuendo. Like golden showers, flaming hot balls, or my all-time fav: 9 inch Mammoth repeater.

This year, we found some pretty tame names, so my favorite was called Let’s Get After It. As of now, I am in favor of letting more white trash name all of our American consumer goods. Learn him good educational supplies for the home school parents, I just puked in my uncle’s couch upholstery cleaner, I reckon it’s still good baby formula…the possibilities are really just endless.


You can read more about our excursion by reading her blog.

Cirrhosis of the brain

Thursday night, Craig, Caren, Laura, and Amanda went to the Vu. I had never been, so I was kind of worried that it might be kind of a bust.

OMG. It was so much freakin’ fun. The comedian was great, the drinks were ok, I danced my ass off, and I was there with the most beautiful boy in ze world!

While coming back from the bathroom, a scantily-clad girl caught my eye across the smoke-filled bar. We can call her ‘A’. She came over, and after 30 seconds, I found out that 'A' was bisexual, had watched Craig and me dancing, and thought that “two guys together were hot.” By the end of the night, she made it very obvious that she wanted to come home with me.

She was also pissed that I was with a guy. Seriously—she was incredulous that I was gay. She was frickin’ hella cute, and I was totally baffled and flattered. Hot-Drunk-Bisexually-Aggressive girl, where were you for the first 19 ½ years of my straight life? Jesus-tapdancing-Christ. Craig got really jealous, it was sooo cute. Craig said that although he had never hit a girl before, he was about to “ass-punch that uppity hussy.”

Ok, so I made that quote up.

Anyway, the night ended with all 5 of us being too drunk to drive home, so Craig and I decided to walk back to my house. Somewhere in the process of crossing the quad, I decided that it would be a good idea if I took off all my clothes except my white boxers (aah!—see-through) and run through the sprinklers at 2AM. The shit that happens in the summer…

Of course I had to be at work at 7:30AM on Friday, but my debilitating sleep deprivation didn’t stop me from having some noisy ‘afternoon delight’ (::skyrockets in flight::) on my lunch break.

Last night I went to the South Farm picnic and drank some beer with Nick, Laura Donelly, and Blake. We played volleyball for like 2 hours, and I repeatedly spiked the ball in my ex-TA’s face (the same one that talked to his mom on the phone during class—“No mother, I have to go. Yes, yes. I will call you back.”) It was just too fucking funny.

I watched some Home Movies last night with Craig and tonight, after he is done with MMe Butterfly, we are going to SoCo to see his friend Jeff who is DJing and then to Shattered for some drunken debauchery.

My liver has currently escaped from my body and is cowering behind my bed. Now excuse me, I have to go show him who is boss.

OMG. So tired. I was at work today from 7:30AM to 5:30PM. I have corn pollen and sweat stuck in my eyebrows and ears. (gross face)I guess I shouldn’t be complaining, because at least I am making a shit-load of money. And I promised my parents I would stop donating plasma, so there goes $200+ a month in cash income I was counting on. Sweet, sweet plasma money.

I have been so busy with work lately, I have all but stalled my summer side projects: practice and learn as much literature over the summer, and hella read-up on my publications so I will pick one sweet research project for next summer. But, whatev.

I am going to the Vu tonight with Craig, Caren, Laura, and some other straight girl. Should be fun. Later tonight I have to prepare a *side dish* for the South Farm picnic tomorrow evening. I am so goddamn domestic. Jeeshush!

Heard about some terrorist attack in England’s mass transit system today on the radio and my first instinct was to call my friend Robyn, who is in Wales (yes, I know it isn't really England). I need to find out if she is ok—although, that girl is resourceful, I know she would survive anything. To Robyn: I love you baby!

"What to do in a blackout"

Continuing with 'my-life-as-Norman-Rockwell-paintings' motif that I have going, I would like to bring your attention to this:

The lights went out at U-Place last week. Fortunately, we were already in bed.

a single coherent argument in favor of mandatory euthanasia

Such negativity today.

I won’t go into details because it would be hella inappropriate to discuss my work situation; but today it was ri-goddamn-diculous. I mean seriously, WWJD?

And when I got home after said ri-godamn-diculous-ness, some fat old man-cripple accosted me for chaining my bike to the railing on the stairway next to the door of my apartment building. He was really confrontational. It was all I could do to help from laughing right in his fat face.

“If you don’t move your bike, I am going to fucking get a bolt-cutter and throw it into the street.”

He then proceed to tell me that he had 2 knee replacements, as if I was supposed to feel sorry for him or something.

If I had my wits about me I would have said something to the effect of: “Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking fat-ass, your knees would still be working.”

Or remind him that I am riding my bike to prevent pollution. But he was too busy hobbling to his SUV and driving off in a hissy. (I know what Ms. Bees would have done…and it would not have been pretty.)

It was just too goddamn funny.

Although I was surrounded by all this negativity today—I overcame. Basically the fact that I am not an crotchety-old-man-fat ass, my knees work fine, and I am dating the most gorgeous man in the world, was enough to propel me through said negativity into a land filled with sparkles and sequins. Rainbows and smiles. I love being a ‘mo.

Craig and I went to play mini-golf last night. Unfortunately for him, I have been playing some wicked croquet the past couple weeks…so I dominated his ass! He shot an 89, and I shot an 80, so basically I bent him over and made him my bitch. Figuratively and…well, you get the picture.

I am so relieved that he is back. Tonight we are going on a picnic, ala my cooking. This afternoon I was running around like a little girl. “I don’t have any balsamic vinaigrette, arugula, or kirsch,” I lamented as I swept back the stray hairs from around my face, and wiped my hands on my matronly, floral printed apron.

Ok, so maybe I didn’t say that…but I do like cooking, and I am not apologizing for that. So there.

After dinner I think we will make Dancer in the Dark into a drinking game. Every time Bjork runs into a wall or a piece of furniture we will have to take a shot. So basically, we’ll get through the first 20 minutes and then be sloshed. Afterwards, in a state of drunken-scandalousness, we are going to go to Shattered and make absolute fools of ourselves.

I need to go--I have to put the pork tenderloin in the oven to bake for the Jamaican pork-tomato sandwiches, caramelize the raspberries for the poached peaches and vanilla ice cream dessert, and put the final touches on my bell pepper, cucumber, and goat-cheese appetizers. Bye love!

Nage ainsi dans l'espace

Craig got back last night after his 4 weeks in Vienna.

And, to salvage what little decorum I have left, all I will tell you is this:

My frenulum hurts so bad (and no Manda not that one—the frenulum in my mouth).

(oh) make me over

This is a picture of my good friend Ms. Bees Knees, at a party in which she came dressed as Courtney Love. OMG! Doesn't she look so much like her? She sports the dangling cigarette, deflated pasty boobs, and even the smeared clown-whore lipstick...the resemblance is uncanny.

Ok, so I'll cut the shit and stop pretending to not be a nerd. What you say? You are already thought I was a total dork? Well fuck you too Amanda Gulley! (I swear, always nay-saying)

Using my nerdy computer skills, I have basically been spying on you for the last week. Yep spying. Thanks to Stat-counter.com. I can access what page referred you to my blog, how long you spent looking, your ISP, how many pages loads you have...blah, blah. It is so creepy.

Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that even though there has been 998 views of my blog in the last week. I don't get no comments. What's that all about? Where is the love...

(I am sure Alan will post something decrying Stat counter's method of statistical analysis, but you can't please everyone eh?)

Yeah you ma-a-a-de me feel (shiny and new)

Not much is happening in my life is really bloggworthy. And since I am an unimaginative and banal 20 year old…I am not going to go and make some entertaining shit up. This is all you’re gonna get people.

Last night after visiting with Rachel, Rachel, Jessie and I decided to check out the trash piles on Anthony. Now, you may be asking yourself, “Ed, have you hit rock bottom?”

And my answer would be, “No?!?”

So we engaged in some frenetic dumpster diving (actually there wasn’t any dumpster, it was just in piles on the curb) and I slowly, but surely, enjoyed myself. When Rachel and I were dating, it really grossed me out when she would dig through other people’s trash—I most objected to her wearing unwashed clothes she got from “Pier 1” (as she nicknamed her scavenging habits) and picking up food items. Even though they were in unopened cans or unopened plastic bags, I thought this was hella gross. But slowly, my inhibitions to dumpster diving were worn away last night.

So basically I find myself wearing an elephant print sarong (Bitch please, I would not wear that on my own accord, Jessie put it on me), and holding a table lamp with the cord twisted around my waist, some CD jewel cases, and some thank you notes that I thought I could use. The thank you notes ended up having a graduation theme print embossed on them, so it looks like I will have to wait 3 years to be able to use those.

But I was totally enjoying this very liberating experience until Natalie drives by (she was visiting her man, who also lives on Anthony) and I felt totally embarrassed. Here I was bedecked with a stranger’s garbage and fraternizing with gypsies. (Jessie and Rachel were both wearing dresses and colorful bandanas). But what is there really to be embarrassed about? Rachel and Jessie kick ass—even if they are too Bohemian for me sometimes.

So the moral of this story is: I need to care less about what others think. And I want to become a hippy. Yes, that is right. I want to use other people’s discarded consumer items.

Give me your kitsch.

CBS=tool of Satan

Fueled by my insane need to find some closure to my paper-writing marathon, I drove to the grocery store for some impulse buying at 1:30AM.

And as I pulled through the check-out lane, I realized that I had not even checked the country of origin for my produce. Which is something I always do. But tonight, I didn’t care if my grapes where grown in Chile as a front business for cocaine drug lords, or that my strawberries were grown in Mexico by some mongoloid peasant that used human excrement to fertilize his crops.

Fuck you Dan Rather and your “Harvest of Shame.” Your uppity investigative journalism makes me want to exploit immigrant seasonal labor even more. Yes. I buy produce picked by disenfranchised migrants. So fucking what? I am basically thrusting my enlarged, elongated, American, Imperialistic phallus into the gaping vagina that is the exploited 3rd world labor source. I don’t care.

Fiscal liberals still haven’t found out that the free market is too powerful a tool for them to harness. The only thing that drives an economy is money. Yes. That’s right. Nobody gives a flying fuck about principles. To the lowest bidder goes the patronage. Why else would Wal-Mart exist? Jeez, do I have hold your hand?

As Conan O'Brien once wrote to his mother in a Valentine's Day card, I have the same timeless message for my country. America: I reject your bourgeoisie values, the wheels of my revolution will crush you.

Or my name isn't...*Robert Gulay*

So it is a bad idea to get a 64 oz soda just because it is several cents cheaper per volume than the 32 or 44 oz sizes. It came in a cup the size of Star Jones (no, that is an over exaggeration—it was the size of a football field, roughly the size of one of Catherine Manheim’s boobs), and I have been tied to the bathroom by my toilet umbilical cord, AKA, my small bladder.

In other unrelated news: While in NY my roommate saw Robert Gulay! How exciting is that? Unfortunately, he didn’t see Will Ferrell—although Aaron did says that Gulay is very short in real life.

Being the nerd that I am, tonight I am finishing my distance learning courses. I will cut myself with plastic spoons, burn my eyebrows off with Everclear, or otherwise mutilate myself to stay awake. I mean, they are due on Wednesday, but I am such a procrastinator—if I don’t finish tonight, I never will. Balls!

When I was growing up, my parents had this enormous oversized Norman Rockwell coffee table book. I spent countless hours on my living room carpet looking at all those paintings. Norman Rockwell is probably my favorite graphic artist-I never liked paintings or the like very much; I spose I always just liked music better. (Funny side note: my Dad, the mathematician, or 'mathmagician' as Mands calls him, has a poster that says, "A graph is worth 1,000 sets of data." Jeez, those math nerds.)

I realize that Rockwell wasn't a fabulous artist (insert Bette Davis saying choppily, "I deplore cheap sentiment"), but his combination depiction of pop-culture and human nature is so uniquely American. And endearing. How unfortunate that I am forced to use the word 'endearing'. Next thing you know, I will be a middle aged woman that wears sweatshirts with house cats on them, and evaluate everything on a gradation of 'cuteness'.

And just like I could live the rest of my life solely speaking in Will Ferrel SNL skits, I could live the rest of my life living out Rockwell's paintings. The one for this week is Homecoming. Guess which character I am.

Gonna give you all my [love]

Ok. Guilty confession time.

Guilty confession #1: Although I some day dream of living in a big city, right now, I want to move to the suburbs when I am thirty (you know, after the whole gay-death thing)—thank god that won’t be for another 10 years. I will take pictures of my furniture, my dog wearing silly hats, bike races, my lawn, and family get-togethers. Is that so wrong? For an example of my unbridled life ambitions do the the clickity-clack here.

Guilty confession #2: I think Madonna wrote the song Like a Virgin expressly for me. Just you take a look:

I made it through the wilderness
Somehow I made it through
Didn't know how lost I was
Until I found you

Like a virgin, ooh, ooh
Like a virgin
Feels so good inside
When you hold me,
and your heart beats, and you love me

I know, I know. Now tell me that song is not personally tailored to my unique life experiences. (And I’m drunk)

Healthy man love

Have you ever fallen asleep on your computer desk on top of 6+ inches of paper, books, and WBS? Or gotten up at 3AM only to cry yourself to sleep by listening to Thomas Quasthoff singing Brahms’ lieder? Because if you have…you could sympathize with me.

In other news: my birthday was fucking awesome! Very relaxed, exactly what I wanted. Robyn even made me a cake encrusted with WBS. Croquet was had by all. Thank you and goodnight.

Tonight Robyn, Lane, Kristin, Eryn, Jenn, Howard and I went to go get some Thai food from Cooper’s Landing, which for those of you not familiar with it, is like 10 miles outside of town, in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. (Which sounds much more exciting than it really is)

I got to talk some with my good friend Robyn, and she will be leaving for 6 months for England. Which is exciting and all, but I am going to miss her with a fierceness. She is so good to me.

Anyway, the food was great, the lady that runs it is some little old Thai woman (what the hell is she doing in the middle of Missouri?) and even “through we ah clozed,” she served us anyway. It makes me miss my Mom…I haven’t lived at home for 2 years. I was telling Craig, God bless women and their domesticism...Lord knows what would happen to all of us without some maternal figures to feed us and light citronella candles around us occasionally.

After said Thai, we walked around the River some and watched the fireflies. Ah, summer, transient and fragile. Coincidentally, it was the summer solstice today, and also a full moon. This should mean something to me, but me not being a fucking Wicca freak, it doesn’t. Except that the days are going to get shorter and autumn—the harbinger of a slow and cold death—will be at our doorstep any day now.

Ok, so maybe I am being a little dramatic, seeing that summer has just begun, but today was my last day of being a teenager. Please, I need some reassurance. Is it all downhill from here?

A cry for help

Due to my recent exercise kick (and the bitches at the rec center—those enablers!) I have done enough lat pulls that I am currently unable to lift my arms above my shoulders.

I am like John McCain. Who will comb my hair? Who will put silly and demeaning birthday hats on my head? Most importantly, who will pick out the wild-berry skittles that have become stuck in my hair after taking a nap on my WBS covered bed?

anbruch

I went riding/running on the MKT trail tonight at dusk, and as usual found myself doing about 7 min/mile pace as I realized I was 4+ miles from where I started. Ug. I totally need to pace myself.

Anyway, on the way back, I kept noticing that all these fireflies had landed on my shorts and chest, and were just sitting there glowing.

I then noticed the trees were alive with the neon demon glow of millions of fireflies. But they weren’t flying around, and they weren’t blinking either. I guess it was too cold? Anyway, they were just ‘on’. As if to say:

“Yes, Ed. We share your apathy and despondency. We are pathetic like you, and since our boyfriend is in Vienna too, we have lost the impetus to exist.”

Chided by insects, how sad.

the new critical idiom

OMG. Ok read this, and tell me what you think. Haha! Fuck the Christian right. It goes beyond the fallacy of believing sexual orientation is something you can fix—and into the credo that homosexuality is a disease that needs to be cured. Don’t get me wrong, I am not going to sport my personal rainbow flag (like many of the bitchy politico-queens) but this is just ri-goddamn-diculous. I mean, seriously, WWJD?

It makes me so appreciative of all the support and acceptance I have gotten from my friends. To Rachel, Robyn, Alan, Lane, Matt, Aaron, Eryn, Rick, Natalie, Nick, Stephanie, Laura, Anson, Manda, and Caren: thanks.

Cacophony of exercise-induced ramblings

OMG. This was like the busiest Friday ever. I had to be at work at 8:00 to pour a gel, and then to the field at 9:00. I rushed back for (yet another) job interview, and then went back the the lab until 4, when I left to go work out. I am planning to go to Sapphire and maybe (?) the Blue Note tonight. Tomorrow holds some retro Shattered? Only, time will tell.

I have been working out again—and I am going to be frickin’ ripped by the end of the summer—pics to follow. And ripped as in lightweight boxer—wiry—ripped (or svelte porn star ripped). Not big and gross ripped.

I just got back, and my vision is scotoma-ed-up and I feel like I am going to pass out. Someone call an ambulance, I feel like a frickin’ druggie. I have replaced my usual choice of Jesus (or oral sex?) with exercise as my new high.

It reminds me of a scene from FALILV:

Narrator: We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

verzagen

I spent most of the morning bending over and punching leaf samples from 2,000 baby corn plants to do small scale DNA preps on them. I am sun-addled and dirty. And totally mind-fried. In addition to this, I ran a gel (which was fantabulous---if one can apply that word to science), had a voice lesson, practiced with Rachel, texted Craig about 4 times, and picked out the rest of my literature.

I am getting ready to have some much needed chicken sustenance and play some croquet with the girls. And by the girls, I mean, Trevor, Fallon, Robyn, Kristin, and Lane.

I dread the first day of summer. June 21. It will be my last day of being a teenager. Single tear.

Why did they decide to edge the lawn outside my apartment just as I was getting in bed to take a nap this afternoon? What is lawn edging, and why the fuck is it a nessesary process? Anyway, mommy was going to be pissed, but she found out that the yard worker was a shirtless and sweaty 6'3'' Mipam Thurman, who had just returned from his photo shoot this morning. So I ...um, I mean mommy, endured.

Hoo! (Like a virgin)

Recently reading certain NY porn stars blogs has made me reevaluate my life. In comparison, my existence is pretty mundane. I mean, they have sex for a living?! I spose so do prostitutes, and stay-at-home mothers, but porn is so much more glamorous. (wild cackling). I have grown restless with my life, especially as the dreaded birthday approaches. 20 years old in 2 weeks. Good gawd. Go ahead, put me in the rest home and feed me applesauce now.

Bottom line: I have talked to some people and there might be some renegotiating. And by some people, I mean the devil. Mwahahaha!

I confess

I have already introduced you all to Ms. Bees, and I think “the” Mrs. needs no introduction. So all that is left is Hunter and Damon, two NY porn stars, who are ridiculously enough, dating each other. How decadent is that? I mean, bitch, please. They are pretty and entertaining, enjoy them. They are my gift to you. (Sorry I didn't post any pics...as you know, it is difficult to catch clothed porn stars.)

Hunter: http://notthatboy.blogspot.com/
Damon: http://nakedcityboys.blogspot.com/

Last night Eryn came over and we watched The Pretender (squeals!!) and ate cake frosting out of the can, and drank some LIIT. Eryn's Rick was out of town, and as I keep reminding all of you, my Craig is in Vienna. (Later I went to Jeff Co and saw the resident-drunks.)

Eryn and I share an abnormal fascination with Michael T Weiss. I have given you all some candy. Shirley, tell mommy thank you. (Now close the blinds. Mommy has a hangover.)
 

I would like to introduce the rest of the world to my good friend, Ms. Bees Knees. If anyone needs a good hag, she is available. (She is the one in the middle wearing the pink thong. Modesty was never her strong suit.) This tube of wonderful has a name!

http://imthebeesknees.blogspot.com/
 

Je n'ai pas de principe, et je m'en vante

Work sucks. I hate feeling incompetent.

My first voice lesson is today, and I have picked out no literature.

I fucking miss Craig. Is it wrong to desire comfort in someone besides myself?

And nature sympathized. So I rode my bike home in the rain. And found consolation in the fact that while rain-soaked, I look hot in my underwear. To quote the Mrs. Astor: I lead a shallow, tawdry life.

Good God! Angry-Ed is back bitches!

I am a curmudgeon. If you are offended by political ramblings of an Ayn-worshipping, intellectual-meritocracy loving, cold-hearted conservative objectivist, read no further.

So I have to read this book Amazing Grace for my peace studies class. It is about ghetto children in Mott Haven, an extremely poor area of New York. Although this is a prime subject for some muckraker, the author squanders his opportunity by writing an incredibly biased, transparent, flaming piece of shit. Although I am not sure whether it is journalistic or not—one thing is for sure. He doesn’t show the whole picture. He goes out of his way to depict only AIDS victims who received the disease from cheating or drug-using husbands. Forget the fact that AIDS is almost an entirely preventable death sentence. After reading this book, no one would agree that the children of urban NY deserve the horrible treatment they endure—but no one in their right mind would also come to the same conclusion as the author. Namely that all urban America’s problems can be solved by forcing the smart children to stay in school with the retards. Public education is a problem, not a solution. It is a huge fucking joke, and anyone who won’t admit it is lying to themselves.

Every time I have to read this book, it makes me want to vomit. The author constantly gets in his jabs against 'conservatives', and constantly cites how society isn’t “fair” to the children. Oh what is fair? Is it stealing from your wealthy neighbor to pay for your child’s education because you are a contraceptive-illiterate single parent who can’t hold down a job due to your inability to finish your methadone sequence? Is ‘fair’ demanding free medical treatment for the sole reason you can’t pay for it?

I am sorry I am white. I acknowledge that my people have destroyed entire ethnicities through slavery, economic discrimination, and single-handedly dismantling the 2 parent home (via welfare).

I want to take all the entitlement-mongers, all the socialists, and most of all, the parasitic professor hiding in the warm-and-cozy world of academia that has made me endure this shit and put them in a huge hole in the ground. And burn the fuck out of them.

I know, I know, I am out of control. (Shuffles feet)

I am a baby raccoon killer.

Last night was pretty fucking fun. I will never tire of giving sex advice to inexperienced straight girls.

“Yes. Guys like blows jobs more than cuddling.”
“No. Most straight guys do not like a finger up the ass.”
“Yes. The worst thing you could do is cry after sex.”

It amuses me to no end.

This evening I went running on the bike trail. I was on my 2nd 2-mile repeat when I see this little brown thing scurrying around right in front of me. It was getting kind of dark, so I picked up a stick and threw it at what turned out to be a baby raccoon. Needless to say: I was mortified. To make things worse, around comes Mike (from work) and his wife Jennifer on their evening bike ride. Perfect timing.

So basically Mike thinks that I am a baby raccoon killer. And I will probably never live this down at work.

The truth of the story is: My mom has taught me to always assume that all approaching wildlife is rabid. This might seem ridiculous to you, but this is a very deeply ingrained psychosis. She instilled in us the fear of germs. My mother also refused us children food on vacations if we washed our hands in the public bathrooms. She would force a wet-wipe on us and then admonish us for touching “what most probably were shit, semen, and HIV encrusted bathroom fixtures.”

Ok. So I made that quote up.

Suicide hotline...please hold.

I just have one thing to say: reality shows on Lifetime are the ugly lesbian sisters of C-grade reality shows on other channels.

No one wants to hear about your vagina. We don’t care about your hormones, body image, or your feelings. You are a disgrace to women everywhere.

Christ, no wonder why so many guys are gay.

fired my pistols (and I shot him with both barrels)

Due to a very fine bottle of lime gin and some club soda, I have numbed my current feeling of loss.

Go ahead: ask me anything about the verisimilitude of cyberspace and other gothic themes in William Gibson’s Neuromancer. I am a god. I can answer all your questions.

your sweat is salty (I am why)...

I drove Craig to the airport today. He will be in Vienna until June 29. This saddens me.

On my way back, the blinding reflection of the red setting sun on the metallic gray of pavement reminded me. A part of me has died.

Lauren reminded me of the whole green hair thing. Unfortunately, it was to begin a downward shame spiral which ended in dark-n-lovely chemical hair straightener/loreal preferences permanent black dye/other assorted semi-permanent dark washes. Robyn came to my rescue with a couple of sassy remarks and blunt scissors. And now we will move on.
 

Give me that which I desire...

OMG.

Since today was Memorial day, I didn’t have to work. And since I am just a working bloke, I was bored out of my mind. Which means that I ended up spending most today doing school work and compulsively checking blogs.

I grow weary of my life. And this got me to thinking about what I would rather be doing.

I would rather be a kept boy. A courtesan one might say. Like Violetta in La Traviata. Only I’ll not wear stunning, jewel-encrusted ball gowns—or die of tuberculosis at the end of act 3.

Le sigh.

Surreal Thursday

Recently, I have started to run again. Yesterday I went on a bike/run and ended up doing 4X2 mile repeats. I forgot how good pain feels. “My muscles burned and my veins pumped battery acid.”

Coincidentally, I might actually use my running skills.

At work today, Dean was on the phone and he looked over at me while Mike, Joanne, and I were doing some SSRs, and he says, “Yeah, he’s fast. Hey Ed, how tall are you?”

And I am like, “6’1”.”

And by now I am kind of worried, because I am thinking Dean is going to sell me into slavery or something. Dean is one crazy MF. Open, up, show your teeth.

But, as it turns out Dean has this woman friend who is a bailbondsman. And she is looking for a part-time partner. I guess, she only takes on semi-dangerous criminals, you know, ones that aren’t armed. Since she is 5’6” and 275 pounds, she needs someone to be able to chase the runaways.

To make a long story short: I might become a bounty hunter this summer. She pays in cash.

Seriously.

The sanction of the victim

I have a confession to make. Something that I have lied about to friends, parents, girlfriends, and coworkers. I did not vote in the 2004 Presidential election.

At the time I just brushed it off, telling myself that I was too busy with schoolwork to bother myself with getting an absentee ballot. And then after the election, I was so ashamed that I missed out on the democratic process.

But the truth is: America is irredeemablely fucked up. I am not going to pretend like I care to fix it.

I want no part of it. I will live here, pay taxes, wave the obligatory flag on July the 4th, but I cannot wait till I get out of this country. I am not saying that anywhere else is any better. It is just too painful for me to see this country come so close to being great, with so much potential, only to throw it away.

I will become an expatriate like Hemmingway, and sip absinthe on the Champs-Elysee. Resigned and staid.

I will not give the “sanction of the victim” to the politicians. They will not be able to say, “The people have spoken” because of me. There was a legitimate choice in that election? What? Two equally execrable lie-peddlers? Either you are for a limp-dicked communist, or you are for a cowboy-boot-wearing ex-cocaine-head spoiled oil-brat.

What do you do if you are an insensitive, fiscally conservative social liberal? Huh? Vote in Bush because I choose to be discriminated against?

Man, the two party system blows ass.

Which leads me to my conclusion: I think I will join the Libertarian Party. They are for the abolition of taxes and the legalization of marijuana. They are the “party” party!

Every boy is a snake is a lily, every pearl is a lynx is a girl

Lately I have been listening to a lot of Bjork. I envy her. She is an elfin-like Icelandic princess. She will always look and sound like a little girl. Ever alluring, perpetually youthful. She is like a female Peter Pan.

Which reminds me, I have less than a month left of being a teenager.

I remember as a kid, you always wanted to grow up, to get a later bedtime or curfew. More responsibility, more freedom.

Balls! And then you find out that being a grown-ups sucks. I mean, not like I am anywhere near having real responsibilities, but I can imagine how much it must suck to be old.

You have bills, children, spouses, jobs, loans. They all need to be fed, to be paid, to be placated.

So here is my promise to you: I will never grow up.

Unless old becomes the new young. Kind of like gray is the new black. Or oral sex is the new 1st base. But, I digress.

I'm a fountain of gladness

Where do I start?

Yesterday morning, after walking the dogs, feeding the fish and such, I came home and went for a run. It was frickin hot—so I ended up going back to bed, which defeated the purpose of a “wake-up” run.

Robyn comes over at like 3PM, and we go to the store to buy “freezy pops, Mmm” and bomb pops. Also we shop for underwear. I decide on the little-boy spider man brief that I had coveted as a child. I got the size 8 (for 60-75 pounders) and with a good stretching they fit. Robyn looks for underwear also and we get into a debate about which is a better animal to have on your unmentionables.

Final decision: ducks are better than turtles are better than bears. Just so you know. I become embarrassed at being in the women’s underwear section, and Robyn callously tells me, “Go to the purses.” Like that will save my waning sense of masculinity.

We take said Popsicle novelties to her house and I see Leelu, Rainbow, Molly, and Lexi. Oh and the humans: Janet and Jenn. And then Lane calls and is like, “do you want to play croquet?” And then he proceeded to tell us that being out of bounds in croquet lingo is called “being out of turkey.” I mean seriously, WTF?

And Janet is like, “Your friends do such weird things”, as Robyn and I head out the door with bomb pops to play croquet in the park. It was fabulous! As most games that we play end up, it was Lane against everyone. But much fun was had by all, and we decided to have a barbeque and play croquet again tonight.

After said croquet/popsicle orgy, Craig and I got something to eat and watched some cartoons. Yes, I said it. Cartoons. And then we drank until Miranda came over and then went with Jeff to Shattered.

It was fabulous, Rachel came with Scott, and they both looked amazing in pink and black! I have never sweated so much in my life…the club was fucking hot. Then I drove us home, and took off my clothes and did hand-stands in the parking lot so Craig would get the hint and come inside.

We drove out to Dean’s house (the guy I was house-sitting for this weekend) and slept in. Walked Ziggy and Pickles, then went to the store to buy some breakfast fixings. Had egg/turkey-bacon croissant sandwhiches, and pancakes. Splendiferous! Nap (and naked hilarity) ensued, once again.

Pretty soon I need to get ready for the barbeque, so I need to cut this out and get in the shower. Yes, it is 5:33PM and I am still dressed in last night’s clothes.

Oh walk of shame, you are a harsh mistress.