TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 8/08/2001 11:16:00 AM ----- BODY:

WE'VE MOVED

Join us in a tribute to peace and beauty. Click on our U-Haul or come visit at http://www.eastwest.nu real soon now, y'hear? Our address has changed. Please make a note of it and update your links or bookmarks baby. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 8/08/2001 02:16:00 AM ----- BODY:

Flip City, R.I.P.

I'm writing to say goodbye cause Flip City died today. He was a swell guy, but I ain't cryin and neither should you. I've been Philo 24/7 all this time and it's about time I'm fully present and accounted for here as well. So join me in saying goodbye to my psuedonym and to East West 1.0. In fact "Flip's" email and aim will be shut down as well. You can catch the new info on the new site. Unfortunately it isn't getting launchted tonight after all. You're going to have to wait til morning cause we got a couple bugs to fix and we're both beat and goin to bed. That's all out of me here. And if you think I've just been working too hard all this time - well, you'll find out what I've really been up to soon enough. Bye Flip! It was nice being ya. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 8/07/2001 02:02:00 PM ----- BODY:

Angels

Wow Choire, you do look kinda fruity in those pictures. Our real names have arrived on East West and you're lookin cute and faggy over there. What's coming next I wonder? In Jr. High school I was obsessed with Charlie's Angels. My best friend Billy and I had matching yellow t-shirts. My allowance was spent on Tiger Beat Magazines in order to cut out the latest pictures and place them into scenic covered plastic sticky cellophane albums. My bedroom became a shrine featuring every poster on the market. Even going back many years the word "balance" seemed to have been misplaced from my vocabulary.

A situation recently has placed in a position to have three angels of my own. I have to say it cracks me up. It does make some kind of sense though. I mean I'm the kind of guy who would find three lovely ladies who are wasting their talents and take them away from all that. I'd have them work for me. I think I'm too much of an in your face kind of guy though to keep hiding mysteriously behind an anonymous speaker phone though. And guess what? We're changing that and East Coast/West Coast 2.0 will be up and online before bedtime. I'm psyched! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 8/07/2001 09:36:00 AM ----- BODY:

outed

Well it's official. I have a face. And a real name. And people take REALLY faggy pictures of me. I'm not that fruity in real life, honest. Well, maybe I am. I'm at a friend's house because he has air conditioning. Excuse me, I like my air to be conditioned. What girl wouldn't? The doorbell rang and with some trepidation I opened it. I didn't EXACTLY tell my friend I was coming over, so I was a little nervous about answering the door. But I was rewarded with the hottest Fedex man ever. Oh my lordy. I was like, "umm, hi!" and he was like, "I have a package," and I was like, "tee hee," and he was looking at me all like, "what's wrong with you?" And I was all like "wow, you are like so totally hot" but I didn't say that part. I just let him leave. Okay I'm that fruity. I don't have time for this inane rambling! I've got a site revision to launch! Leave me alone! Just go look at my picture and mock me on your little blogs. Oh right. And we have real names too. Live it up. Can you believe our real names are freakier than our fake names were? THE FOURTH WALL IS CRUMBLING MASSIVELY. I'M FREAKING OUT. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 8/06/2001 06:26:00 AM ----- BODY:

foglifting

It's 9 a.m. and I'm sprawled on my bed in a wet swimsuit. I'm getting on the next boat to the mainland. I can't wait to get home and implement some of the suggestions from our beta testers. May I extend my greatest thanks to Remi and Brian for their wise words over the weekend? Ooo, I'm a little phlegmy. Ahem. Phew, there we go. Orange juice, smoking, and an early rising. Together again. It's the foggiest morning ever. We barely swam because once we were out in the ocean we realized we couldn't see the shore. Panic! I stumbled right out of the water. I don't wanna drift away. I'm no Kate Chopin. I'm a little scared about this week. I keep my life very segregated and it all comes crashing together, back to back this week. Tomorrow we move this site, so I'll just be hunched over the laptop for the next 24 hours (write me! keep me company! ask me questions about your personal troubles to distract me!). I have a date with Uncle Paul. He's the talkingest trick in town! Blahdey Blah Blah. He does NOT shut up. Here is an exact record of the most unfortunate conversation to take place during sex ever. Please keep in mind that we were fully naked and having sex during this conversation:

Me: Oh, you like to get bossed around a little. Uncle Paul: I supposed I do get into that... Me: [cracking up] I bet you have an older brother. Uncle Paul: Yeah, I did, but he's dead now. Me: [pause] Gosh, I'm really sorry to hear that.

To his credit, he dealt with this really well. I nearly crumpled but decided to acknowledge the moment appropriately and move on. Then I have to be in the office all day and night Thursday, I have a massive committee meeting on Sunday, for which I have yet to find a cheap Manhattan venue that seats 35, and sometime I'm supposed to drive up to Cape Cod to visit a friend? When the fuck is that going to be? My mind is kind of feeling wrinkled. Oh wait! I'm being stupid-ass! These are really fabulous problems! Dates, vacations, road trips, service work, domain names! Whee! My life rocks, it's just my attitude that sucks! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 8/04/2001 01:30:00 PM ----- BODY:

betatesters

Psst! Any of our regular readers wanna be bug testers of E/W v2? email or AIM me! Oh! And I love Bill and Ron! Yay! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 8/03/2001 01:38:00 PM ----- BODY:

purity

I relax now. I think of the cool summer breezes I have been missing while completing my year end report writing manifesto. I live in a magnificently tragic city dripping in decopauge and art deco buildings. Oakland is a city to be savored with all one's senses. As the winding down continues I promise I'll be doing just that. Seeing. Tasting. Smelling. Feeling. Listening. I intend to get out there and grab this city by its balls. Good morning Oaktown, I'm young, free and single and I'm throwing myself on your lofty concrete shores. I cover the waterfront. I wander along Jack London Square and give thanks to the Bay Area I call my home! And I will stand, eventually, right upon the city's very edge and gaze out into the waters where I'll ask myself my usual question. "How dirty do you think that water is anyway?" Water should be clean. We give thanks to Brita, the water store and evian. I can shower safe from harm should I choose to do so. Our dishes are clean. We use antibacterial soap and dishwashing liquid. I mean it kills bacteria, right? We pour it down our drains where it flows someplace and then theoretically goes right on killing even more bacteria. Does it flow into the bay? Am I really an environmentalist? Is San Francisco Bay getting better every day thanks to me using these products? The House Mate recently invested in the ultimate in relaxationland living. Our new outdoor jacuzzi is deluxe ladies and gentlemen. It even has this thing in it called the "Ozone-ater" which supposedly pumps ozone into our water. This ozone combines with the bromite from the tablet and somehow all the bacteria molecules rise to the surface and evaporate or die or something important like that. Is pumping Ozone into our water releasing more Ozone into the environment? Is that a bad thing? Or are we helping Mother Nature? I mean don't we all need just a little more Ozone in our lives? Perhaps the holes in our planet's atmosphere at the North Pole are being filled right now thanks to all the redwood hot tubs in Northern California. There are no pesky little germs on our forks and knives and spoons. There are no amoebas breeding in our hot tub. My friend Stephanie would be happy. We don't see each other very often, primarily because she's bacteria phobic. She doesn't like to leave her house. She uses napkins to open doors and answer telephones. We went out to eat once and she brought silverware from home in a clear ziplocked plastic baggie. She said, "I know these are clean." If only she could find her very own Boy in the Plastic Bubble. I mean there must be someone out there for everyone on this big blue marble, right? I am burning a cd for myself I am calling "The Summer of My Discontent." I'm enjoying it immensely. Fly Pan Am, Faun Fables, Plastikman, Cowboy Junkies, Richard Buckner, Calexico... I do not know that I am particularly discontent though and that is the problem. If I was something would change. I would develop a plan of action. It is more the summer of exhaustion and emotional lethargy. It has it's magic nonetheless, and many of those moments have been found in the jet streamed waterson the backyard deck. Something rather marvelous is going on. The House Mate and I are getting closer again. There is something which inevitably happens when you spends hours together, naked, frothing in Ozone ridden heated waters. It's called conversation. I think for both of us it has been almost worth the price of the spa alone. Way up to the north in the Arctic Circle I am reminded that you can sit at night and watch the Aurora Borealis toss amazingly beautiful colors across a night time sky. I've never seen it, but it still a dream to do so before I die. Dark, atmospheric, colorful, dreamy - and yet it's all just light and dots coming together as a result of our poorly fractured ozone to create images of sheer utter beauty. It seems that even when things are broken they can often yield even more amazing results. I am starting to see where this is true for me. I hope it is true for everyone. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 8/02/2001 04:39:00 PM ----- BODY:

true confessions

Before I mindmeld a seemingly limitless array of blog visitors over the next few days, Ron, Bill, and Jonno, as well as our hearty locals, I really thought I should make something known.

I have a specially different foot. There's other things wrong with me, OH GOD, no kidding. But my middle toe on my right foot is far more obvious. Everyone in my mother's family has this toe. We're mutants. We're freeeaaaakkksss! And when the day of reckoning for all freaks comes, you know I'll be ready. So will my friend Jerry . I wonder if this Jerry has his own Kids yet? Maybe I could be one. So, everyone in my father's family has the curving second toe on my right foot. Not a big deal on its own. But together? Not only does the middle toe tuck under, the second toe curves over it. It's amazing that I can even walk at all. This must have been why my parents had me. Everyone wants a freakish baby to show off in the trailer park, right? I'm practically lobsterboy. At least I'm not Andy. Foot fetishists may enquire. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 8/01/2001 09:09:00 PM ----- BODY:

People disappear every day

Oh I just did something really creepy. I was chatting with Todd about life, boyfriends, and retardation. I told him my paternal grandparents lived just outside of Cleveland, which is where Todd lives. I started to wonder if they were still alive. As a byproduct of not talking to my father, I stopped seeing that part of my family. There was no dramatic reason for me ditching my father. We didn't see each other much. I didn't know him well. He was kind of a cold fish. I didn't, umm, dig his scene? I dunno. He was kind of a dick. He tried with me though. I learned alot of stuff from him. But I didn't like the way he treated my mother. I guess I always got the impression of being a kind of not entirely displeasing burden to him. My dad had an attitude like that about everything. He was a real life-is-suffering kinda guy. I get my quite substantial cynical and bleak half from him. I get my giddy laugh-a-lot side from my mom. Which doesn't make sense, cuz my mom's life has been a lot funkier and more challenging–she grew up a WHOLE lot poorer, raised me mostly without him, took care of her dying mother for years, had a couple mid-life breakdowns... Or maybe that does make sense. Anyway, having a very very unusual last name makes it quite easy to keep track of my family. When I check out the Social Security Death Index, only 11 names come up, total. That's all of us with that last name who died since there were Social Security numbers. And honey, we're ALL related, even though I don't know who any of them are. Well, I know who ONE of them is now. So I did not know that my grandpa was born in 1909. My goodness! That was a long time ago! I also did not know that he died two days before my birthday in 1996. Now I feel all weird and creepy. Don't go looking on the internet to see if your estranged family is dead, okay? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 8/01/2001 12:04:00 PM ----- BODY:

Retraction

Where is the night so warm and so strange that no one is afraid of themselves? Pick, pick up, dig, dig out those weeds, out of your happy-go-lucky field of such polluted thinking. Where do the rockets find planets? Cat Power

I was just leaving the theater, and I suddenly realized that everything I told you this morning was a complete lie. I would gladly refund every penny you spent here today: I'm sorry, I can't do that. I'm not a fragile lady. What the hell was I on about? And I don't care what people think. About me, or about my HTML skills. I forgot: I love cheese sandwiches. I'm gonna walk out to the deli right now and get one. Mmm, cheddar please. There are bigger fish to fry, aren't there? After all, who do all of you turn to when you have boyfriend problems or an existential crisis? That's right. I've kept on rocking in the free world. Plug it up! We're all sorry, Cassie. Only two more days of work til summer vacation. Which is sort of like a real vacation. Except you have to keep coming in to work to check on things. And people keep calling you. But that's okay. I'm gonna come to work nude and carefree. Miniskirts were once the rage, right? And the beat goes on. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 8/01/2001 09:03:00 AM ----- BODY:

Brain Cramp

Well last night I totally hurt my brain and it hasn't resolved itself yet. I was right in the middle of trying to do something complicated on the move to the new site. Suddenly my brain started dumping data or something and I had to take to my bed. I was mid-IM with Flip on the West Coast and I had to go away quite suddenly. I'm such a fragile lady sometimes. There are summer flies in my house. I'm having a decaf green tea for the anti-oxidants. Then I think I'm going to protein-load to encourage my brain to come back. I have the tiniest little cold—just enough to make anything distracting, like a Star Trek Voyager I'd already seen before. Instead of working (I'm not a robot!) I spent some serious time catching up on bobofett who fucking slays me, andy's chest who seems to actually KNOW me, perceptions who surely must be fictional, pablo kicking ass overseas, and getting some major perspective on the internet and its uses from fireland. I'm trying to not decide that what I want to do with this website is impossible technically. My fears about having big fat pictures of my face on that website are multiplying my willingness to say, Nope, can't be done. But I'm not a wuss. I don't back down from a challenge, right? So maybe the website launches with a ton of javascript errors, and I work the archives on the fly. Who needs comments and permalinks? You should have SEEN what happened last night when I tried to validate the HTML. So what? Big hairy deal, right? Oh, are they all gonna laugh at me, like Carrie White? Well let the HTML purists dump the pig's blood, baby. We'll see what happens. I even had nightmares about it. Okay. I'm going into work. I'm going to take care of my paperwork and phone calls there and be responsible and adult. Then I'm going to get a meeting space finalized for another commitment I have. (Don't knock that: have you ever tried to get cheap rent on a meeting space in Manhattan for 50 people? It's like pulling taffy—out of someone's large intestine). Then I'm going to get my crap together. I'm going to go out and grab that website by the balls. Thank you for letting me share about my feelings. I figure if you people are willing to read something on hideous old Blogspot (God bless it) then you'll be thrilled to see anything with a real domain name. Umm... right? Just do me a favor: if you don't use Internet Explorer 5 or higher? Get it now, okay? You will suffer the pain of fractured tables. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/30/2001 04:45:00 PM ----- BODY:

Morning Sickness

First I reversed my sleep schedule. Once again I had become nearly nocturnal, panicking as the sun started to rise and rushing to bed. Sleep deprivation began. Of course I became more isolated. To put an end to that I stayed up one final time until 6 a.m. I was making out on the beach with a boy named Jay. “Is that short for something?” I had asked him. “No—well, in a sense,” he had answered. The sunrise was of course incredible, and far more specific than my gentleman friend. Although, I had seen a moonrise two weeks ago that was far more terrifying. Over the ocean came a hovering dot of fuschia like a hazy ship on fire which pulled itself quickly together into a twisted orange crescent. That was kind of scary. I set my alarm for 10 a.m. the next morning and awoke to a house full of activity. Cooking, scrubbing, rearranging. The whole town was coming over for an open house and with or without a good night’s sleep it was hostess time. I made people drinks and only rarely slipped into my bedroom for a fifteen minute nap. We went from lounging to swimming over and over again. The ocean was very odd and very green, choppy and strong without being violent. Nice people came to the party. Christopher the gorgeous academic who I believe I would like to ask on a date. Tiny Feet’s summer fling buddy, the Filipino/Irish bartender (or, The Drunken Dog Eater, as he calls himself). An actor who will remain nameless: I will merely say that he only plays gay on HBO. The nicest people. I stayed up as long as I could and then at 10 p.m., with only the household and a mess remaining, I went for a nap that accidentally lasted 10 hours. Now 8 a.m. is easy as pie. The mornings are delightful again. I feel really rested. I celebrated my return to real life by playing bingo with gay senior citizens last night. I went with the woman who I’m going to set up with my mother, if they ever find themselves on the same coast. We both won a little, lost a little. The game I won was called “Tops and Bottoms.” The only bingo that counts in this game is the top row and the bottom row. When you win you have to stand up and declare which row you are. So fifty elderly people all laughed and pointed at me when I had to stand up and yell “I’m a bottom!” “What was that, sonny? I can’t hear you!” It amused them to make me repeat myself. “Haven’t you asked around town?” I said to them. “This is news?” I had another fantastic night of sleep. Now it’s nearly noon. The hideously loud noon bell will sound in just minutes. That is, if it’s on time. Sometimes the noon bell is late and I wonder, well, why do we bother at all? Is it useful to alert a whole town that it’s noonish? No—well, in a sense. Agh. There she blows. It’s very cold and it doesn’t look like noon at all. Earlier this morning I put on two sweaters and walked out to the steps to the ocean. The waves are coming in diagonally to the shore. It’s slate-colored and foamy and rough and the seagulls are screaming. The sand is blown into ripples and it stings my ankles. Way out on the horizon to the right you see rain sweeping down in gray paths. Way out on the left you seen a yellow sunny calmness. That was kind of scary too. I can hear the wail of the fire siren in the next town over. It’s very noonish over there. It’s going to be a strange day. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 7/30/2001 01:29:00 AM ----- BODY:

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been

I'm back! It would have been one hell of a relaxing weekend had it not been for the psychic fair. Rather than hanging out revelling in the near completion of my year end report mayhem, I was off for a weekend of reading auras and tarot cards. I guess that's alright. Most of this fair was set up outdoors in this odd location. Can't say I liked it, but it was great to sit in the sun and catch some rays for a change. Can I tell you how much my gaydar sucks lately? There's this guy I've always thought was pretty cute, but I was sure he wasn't even playing on my turf, y'know? Well, we were hanging out a bit yesterday and he tells me he's in love and his new boyfriend and he are shacking up soon. I almost fell of my chair. Had I known, I would have thrown some major passes a year ago. Looking back I can see where that pat on the back he gave me was a bit more than friendly, little occurences here and there of quite possible affectionate interest, but now he and the guy will be shacking up. I'm happy for them, I really am, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't cross my mind to play a little game called homewrecker. I've been listening to a couple of new tasty music selections, though both get filed in the difficult listening hour. For the more adventurous check out some crazed J-pop from OOIOO. They kind of remind me of The Slits in a way. And I have finally tracked down the mystery artist I have been searching around months for - and it turns out she lives right here in Oakland. Faun Fables amaze me. I've been hearing her in the mornings on kfjc for some time. Amoeba records had never heard of Fawn Fibbles, or Fawn Fables for that matter - but the computer finally recognized Faun Fables tonight and sent me straight into the unusual/experimental section. The track Sleepwalker is one of em that sticks in my head for hours. Since she's local I hope to catch her live soon. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/29/2001 05:17:00 AM ----- BODY:

blogathon

The 24-hour bloggers are LOSING their minds and I have front row seats!!!! HA HA HA. They're killing me! Check out my brain-damaged pals in particular: Mermaniac Jerwin Fredo Check em all out here! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/27/2001 12:20:00 AM ----- BODY:

Fuck the Pain Away

My Friday Manifesto

In an attempt to get over the hurt that I wasn't invited out to the LURE with all the other bloggers last night ("Mary Jane. Listen. Please," Eloise said, sobbing. "You remember our freshman year, and I had that brown-and-yellow dress I bought in Boise, and Miriam Ball told me nobody wore those kind of dresses in New York, and I cried all night?" Eloise shook Mary Jane's arm. "I was a nice girl," she pleaded, "wasn't I?"), I slapped myself back for a night of self-validation. Anyway, everybody's friend is everybody's fool. Ha! The critics are right: I am a petty, bilious girl. I taxied down to the Bowery Ballroom a little before nine tonight, with my pal, Tiny Feet. TF is always up for a rock show, in any genre—he's easy. The ballroom was filled with stunning youngsters in fantastic lighting. My favorite band in the world (right after Troy and his Nubian Brothers, of course) took the stage as the first act. Ladies and gentlemen, the Moldy Peaches! Adam, the post-teen Jewish boy lead singer, was dressed as an elf. Kimya, the large sassy but shy girl with the even bigger bleach blonde afro, was wearing something really complicated and ripped and had kitty cat whiskers drawn on her face. They sang all their best songs—Steak for Chicken ("Who mistook this steak for chicken? Who'm I gonna stick my dick in?"), The Ballad of Helen Keller and Rip Van Winkle, and of course, Who's Got the Crack ("I like it when my hair is poofy. I like it when you slip me a roofie. I like it when... you've got the crack!"). It was delightful. They were fantastic. The smallish audience was stunned into submission by their insanity and rock prowess. The hip children with glitter and mullets started to pour in between bands. For them, the main event was coming: Peaches herself. LF and I had been pleased that we didn't know a soul there, but suddenly we knew everyone. Justin Bond showed up to rock. Kids who used to live at the homeless shelter I worked at a million years ago were there, artists I know, my dyke pals from the East Village, and people from all over my past, lots of it San Francisco past, all came in trashy outfits to celebrate the power of pussy. Peaches came onstage wearing very little, most of it red lamé, and ended up wearing a LOT less. The crowd went fucking nuts. The scary-looking Canadian sister rapped all alone on stage about her tits, the nature of ecstacy, and the pleasures of giving head. She performed some of her classics, including Lover Tits, Suck & Let Go, and of course the seminal Fuck the Pain Away. In one exciting moment she tied the ends of her mullet together around the front of her throat. That was impressive. As suddenly as the incredibly loud break beats and Heart samples ceased, and the throng stopped moshing, everything silently made sense. What is the mind but a toy? What is your body but a tool to measure pain and pleasure as it keeps your braincase safe? Art narcs out your nastiest fears and most deniable dreams. You don't have to hold back anymore. Get that skateboard. Steal that double-headed dildo you've always coveted. Quit your job! Screw your brother-in-law—and tell the family. Go to law school. Kiss your vet. Buy some Lucky Charms. Call your mother. Tell that bitch at the corner store to go fuck herself! Touch yourself twice a day. Lie about your age. Harness your sexual energy and spread some love and pleasure and pain and torture! You're still alive, have you not been paying attention? I was a nice girl, wasn't I? No, I'm a fucking freak, a freak of nature! It's time to party like a freak! Aren't you tired of the rules in your head? Won't you join me in this tribute to peace and beauty? Say what you mean! Mean what you say! One thing leads to another! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/25/2001 10:14:00 PM ----- BODY:

Memo

From: RJ To: the Tin Man Re: This evening when we encountered each other briefly, were surprised, and I fantasized about your life. As we parted ways in that steamy Thai cafe, I was compelled to tell myself this story of your evening. You leave the Thai restaraunt and emerge refreshed and lemongrassed on University Place. You and your cute date wander over to the Strand bookstore and spend hours making each other laugh with impersonations of Truman Capote and Anne Sexton. Deep down in the basement stacks, you joyfully toss barely used reviewer's copies of Why the Tree Loves the Ax and The Quick and the Dead at each other in a blissful literary game of catch. Burdened by a papercut and your date's need to smoke a clove cigarette, you come back up on Broadway, buying nothing. He takes your arm, your left arm, as you walk up Broadway, and in the heat you feel a further burn because you've wanted him to touch you all night long. His fingertips pad over your forearm and you nearly blush. It's twilight outside and you can't hear the traffic or feel the wetness in the air because of your complete attention to the moment building between the two of you. Let's call him David, because you should be dating a David. David, still push/pulling at your arm, tied together, takes you past the skaters in Union Square, up the grand steps, past the statues. He takes you beneath the canopy of trees in the near-dark night, past the beautiful basset hound in the dog run, and through the discarded remains of the Farmer's Market. There, on the still heat-glazed asphalt, he puts his arm around your waist and together, looking down at the painted ground, instead of at each other, you walk the circular ramble of the labyrinth. As you walk, dazed with brain chemistry, around the twisting circle, you imagine what it will be like to go home with him. Will you feel fear? Will his touch against your chest make you moan? You fall into a sexual meditation. Now David has his hand planted in the damp small of your back... he leads from behind as you turn, ever closer to the thickest part of the mystery. But it didn't happen, eh? No, it turns out that it didn't go like this at all, it seems. Instead he was your friend Nick, you ditched him after dinner, and then went to Barnes and Noble and took a big dump and lost your glasses in the crapper. I suppose I'll always be surprised by the magic of life. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/25/2001 02:50:00 PM ----- BODY:

Nearly Famous

Why yes. That is yet one more picture of me hiding my face. I'm reminded once again of Welcome to the Dollhouse, when Dawn learns the mysterious phrase fingerfucking. "Do you like my hands, Steve...?" Anyway, it was nice to see the chess club. I mean theatre club. I mean forensics team. I mean gay bloggers. Hi English bloggers! Thanks for coming over!!! Truth be told I had a good time last night. The bar was hopping, I tried to make some time with an odd Australian, and best of all most of the bloggers seemed to skip dinner before beginning to drink. Amateurs! I really liked everyone who was there, which isn't usually the case with me and groups of people. I hope Tin Man had fun at the bathhouse afterwards. God, he's really turned into a skank. Bully for him! Speaking of nerds getting together, in my high school, there were a lot of school clubs. There was an odd tradition: one club that was always only made up of one member that was the butt of all the school's jokes. Sort of like the court jester. It was called the Pun Club. Patrick was the Pun Club for most of the time we were in high school. His job was to annoy us all, to insert bad puns into the school newspaper and yearbook, and to say annoying funny things in the hallways. It was kind of surreally brilliant. I wonder where that tradition came from? It had gone on for quite some time. I wonder whatever happened to him? It's even hotter. Miserably hot. Deathly hot. I'm dizzy. We are promised a cold front sometime in the next half hour. Ever day it's gotten 5 degrees hotter, and I've gotten two hours less sleep every night, as I toss and turn and sweat. I'm exhausted. I still have nothing to say on the subject of my speedfreak retard stupidhead jackass Xboyfriend. Oh I guess I just did say something, didn't I? I have to run and go for coffee with Blondie. He's moving to a yurt in Montana for the next six weeks, and I want to see his angelic little face one more time before he is gobbled by wolves. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/24/2001 11:38:00 AM ----- BODY:

speed kills

Well, it looks like I'm psychic too, Flip. Just last night, in this very blog, I was comparing my ex-boyfriend to a speedfreak! And guess what? He is! How bout that? What a world. Guess those 7 years of sobriety he had just weren't worth it. I mean, it's not like he's freebasing crack like he used to, right? Crystal meth is such a nice social use drug. Don't you remember all those lovely dinner parties where, after we retired to the library, we'd all just do a little crystal meth to mellow out and get to know each other better? Oh wait. That never happened. Well. For once I really just don't know what to say. I'm extremely bitter. But bitter isn't a feeling. I'm sure I'll have some of those later. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/23/2001 11:11:00 PM ----- BODY:

fetch the (moral) compass, kids

[Note: as I wrote this, I got madder and madder. Enjoy it now: it may be deleted or altered when it's not as hot in my house and I'm not as pissed.] [Note #2 (the next morning): Never mind. Deleting nutty posts is for wusses who are scared of sounding crazy. I'm not! Live it up! Whoops, late for therapy... ha ha ha, just in time? Or too late? You be the judge!] It's ugly hot. And New York City is a miniscule town. Full of idiots. Most of whom I have married previously. Allow me to illustrate. I've begun leaving the house again, but only to get out of this sweatbox. Out of desperation, me and The Scribbler went to see AI. What the fuck was that? Steven Spielberg must have late stage syphilis or something. I just wanted Stanley Kubrick back alive so that it could have become the fully dreadful insanity that movie should have been. That movie was cynical and dark, through and through. I mean mostly in its being made. But man that kid creeped me out too. How icky. Tepid badness is just bad. On the other hand, crazy-bad badness is the most satisfying thing there is. Anyway the air conditioning rocked. Oh and the air conditioning kicked ass last night too, but have I mentioned what a horrible, oppressive, small town this is? I decided to go on an adventure last night. The air conditioning center of the East Village is a small basement men's club a short walk from my house. I sweltered on over. It must have been free night for ugly guys in there, down in that dank frosty black-painted basement. I don't have anything against the ugly per se: some of my best friends are ugly. I mean they're really hideous. But these guys were dull ugly, not fabulously ugly, not gorgeously Rossy de Palma ugly. Don't get me wrong. I don't like pretty boys. They bore me with their clean shiny faces and their cute haircuts and their gym bodies. Do you see now how too much of a (culturally regarded) "bad" thing isn't enough? If you're gonna be hideous, well, work it, hatchet face. Anyway it was like a dog fight in there. So I'm watching the TV they have down there, smoking and leaning against the pool table, doing my Steve Hurley impersonation. I'm sorry, that's only hysterically funny if you know what a wussy babyface I am. So I'm chillin' and this guy creeps up to me. He looks like an old chicken. He's wearing horrid 1998 bronze-colored track pants. Worst of all? He's wearing a Walkman. For our straight and lesbian friends, let me explain. There's a certain class of people who wear Walkmen to "gentlemen's clubs." Usually they're on crystal meth. When you're going out for a simple evening of cruising, and you need musical accompaniment to block out all the noise, it means you're not all there. Warily I watch the old man approach me. As he gets closer, he sort of waves, and I see that... it's my ex-boyfriend. Yes, the man I lived with from 1995 until just six months ago. Huh. He looks like crap. Evidently the divorce has treated me far better. So. There we are. Smoking. He's listening to Schubert on the Walkman. A classy touch, eh? Here are the thoughts that are rushing through my head: "Oh my god his skin is GREY. Hey, what's he doing at a sex club? He's having sex again? WE didn't have sex for years because he wasn't having sex anymore! Why is he wearing those tacky pants? And why is he here to fuck up my big night out on the town? Oh man, if he says anything out of line I'm going to throw a giant fit right here in front of everyone and not be able to come back for months. When did I stop speaking to him—March? April? After those retarded emails he kept sending me? Are those pit stains on his t-shirt?" Like that. Actually it was nice to see him. He looked mellow. I didn't have any ill feelings at all. I felt totally clean. So we made chit chat. Oh yes, I have some things of yours that I bet you'll want before winter, too, hee hee. Oh, gosh, how is Scott? (Yeah, Scott (and Scott is his real name), his ex-Marine friend who beats his boyfriends. My least favorite person, umm, in the universe?) Wow, that's a terrible story. Sorry to hear that. Oh yeah? Well Paul really always was full of himself, that's true. Oh sure. Small talk. Then the Xboyfriend asks if I've "heard" anything about him. I tell him I haven't. "Well," he says, "I'm on medication now." Well, no duh. He's been on 30 pills a day since I've known him. "Medicaaaation," he repeats. "Oh," I say, "you mean crazy pills!" So after the divorce he finally goes to see a shrink and they tell him he's manic-depressive and put him on anti-psychotics. "Yeah, I'm bipolar," he says. "No kidding," I say, just to piss him off. Ha! I'm not crazy! You're the one that's crazy!!! YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY! Ugh. All that fucking time? When I was like, "Gee honey, sounds like your doctor's right, why don't you go see the shrink at his clinic?" Well he can kiss my ass. I'm so glad our breakup was the time for him to get it together. It would have been JUST AWFUL if he'd gotten it together, say, while we were still together. That would have been far to considerate of me and the people in his life. I mean, then he wouldn't have been a disruptive, self-centered, annoying prick for the last year of our relationship, right? If he'd gotten it together and admitted he actually did need help? Grr. He makes me boiling mad. Fuck him for not being able to respond to me. That'll teach me to be supportive and kind and gentle. Next time a motherfucker starts to lose his shit on me I'm gonna be like "Off to the nuthut, bastard! Don't pull a theatre people trip on me. You're going on the crazy pills and you're starting yesterday!" So great. I'm just the universe's instrument in helping him hit bottom with his mental health. Gosh that was fun.Thanks, can I have my 20s back now, ya bastard? And what's my part? I went along for the ride. Would you like to grind me down to fix yourself? So ask yourself, future husband applicants—are you a user? Are you a two-time loser? Are you not through suffering? Well get the psych eval before our first date, cuz I have a very firm no dipshit policy. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/22/2001 01:05:00 PM ----- BODY:

Results Guaranteed!

You're a part time lover and a full time friend The monkey on your back is the latest trend, I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but you. I'll kiss you on the brain in the shadow of the train I'll kiss you all starry eyed my body swingin from side to side I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but you --the Moldy Peaches

Sometime in the middle of the night I decided that I wanted to get married. That brings me some pain but I must do as my brain orders. I'm controlled by my feelings. That's a good thing, right? That's what they told me in rehab. I am currently accepting applicants. You may embark on a completely easy, money-saving and absolutely free voyage of discovery with me. Yes, you! I know you'll contact me forthwith. Pictures are available upon request for potential mates: I'm 29, six foot tall, 166 pounds, with short brown hair and a funny first name. I live in Manhattan. I like to work at my satisfying job, swim at the beach, participate in the seamy underbelly of pop culture, read obscure books, laugh at yoga teachers, run around with groups of people, have long talks, see random rock n roll bands, smoke cigarettes, make people crack up, talk to strange strangers, and solve problems. Oh yes, and I'm into complete self-disclosure on the Internet. That makes me hot! Though politically non-monogamous, I'm totally considering monogamy these days. Sexually I'm bottom-ish, and trying to embrace that. So I want all that stupid old shit. I'd prefer to date a man with a job. Actually I'd prefer to date a member of the English Royal family. But I'll happily settle for employed. I'm aiming for someone within 7 years of my age. Someone funny. Someone with relationship experience, and some life experience. I've got plenty myself, so please try to keep up. This post brought to you with the clarifying assistance of Riley Dog. Every day Riley brings only the best information to light. Hey! I'm starting to feel okay! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/21/2001 03:20:00 PM ----- BODY:

the revolution will not happen on my computer

My brain is still in a Hedwig mood. For fun, I'm covering my dumbass cat with catnip so as to torture the smarter cat. They're running around the house like... stoned cats. MEANWHILE, HELLO! There are some very inspiring 100,000-plus people riots in Genoa (see for yourself on the webcam). I sure wish I was there. Women on Waves are sailing around the world, dispensing contraceptives and providing safe abortions. They're getting it together in Detroit, now that the FBI and DEA say they won't work with the Detroit police department unless they stop randomly imprisoning people and/or shooting them. And what am I doing? Sure, I'm increasing my "skill set" with internet tools in case I ever get canned from work. Sure, the new East/West will be entertaining and fun. But really, c'mon, what I'm doing is staring isolatedly into a laptop screen. And probably entering the tunnel that is carpal. Anyway. Take a look at this picture. If anyone's been down this road before, tell me if I'm crazy for doing it this way. And also, let me extend my deepest thanks to Ron, Brian, Noah, and Mattee. Thanks boys! You all rock.

-------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/20/2001 10:43:00 PM ----- BODY:

six inches forward

When I think of all the people I've come upon in my travels, of course I think of all the people who've come upon me. Poor, poor Miss Hedwig. Despite still feeling ill, I dragged myself out of bed because I'd promised myself ages ago that I would go see Hedwig on opening night, if that day ever came. I walk-staggered weakly to the giant Union Square multiplex. I had just consumed a big bowl of white rice, with two fried eggs and a Boca patty mixed in for protein. My first meal this week. It's Friday night in Manhattan. I won't bother to describe it. I was forced to walk in to several people. But I arrived at the hideous monster theater and sat way up front the way I like. It's one of the perks of going to the movies alone. I saw a preview for The Deep End. Oh my god. It's Tilda Swinton's second big Hollywood breakout film. Please everyone promise to go see this movie. Tilda Swinton is one of the best actors working today. From Orlando to Female Perversions, both two of my favorite movies, to classic Jarman movies like Edward II, and even in the crappy Leonardo DiCappuccino movie The Beach, she has produced incredible performances that haven't gotten enough credit. And check out this nutty plot summary from the upcoming Teknolust! Umm, whatever, I'll still see it for her. Anyway, go see The Deep End when it comes out. She is a genius.That is all. Also genius is Hedwig. It's really really pleasing to watch and it still makes me really really sad. Personally, it takes me back to a time, the early mid 90s in fact, when we'd run in to John Cameron Mitchell gleefully buying wigs in the Village, and the band members would party in my downstairs neighbor's apartment. They were basically the house band at the now-defunct Friday night Squeezebox, one of the few New York clubs I've ever enjoyed (because I'm grumpy, not because it sucks here). So it takes me back to a weird period in my life, when I was fairly depressed, and I didn't know what the hell I was doing with my life besides being poor and trying to live in NYC and going to parties where I didn't know anyone and I couldn't stand the smell of what they were drinking. There were always arguments over dinner about what was important and what a good film was and what woman was inspiring and normally I'd end up silently eating a dinner roll and smoking at everyone. That was the year that I always found myself in someone's 21st floor apartment with a view of the World Trade Center eating macadamia nuts for dinner, having agitated conversations about important books. I guess I was kind of the world's angriest poodle back then. Also just Hedwig itself makes me sad. The whole show/movie is a really deep interrogation of what we might believe about perfect love. Does my other half have what I don't? Did he get the looks, the luck, the love? It kills me. It's a brilliant series of metaphors heaped together with great calculation. I'd love to be able to see the movie without having seen the stage show, but of course I've been a number of times over the years, trying to get to the heart of it all. Well sure, and being lap-danced as often as possible. And god I'd love to see Flynn perform it as well. It's so tempting to magically think we were all matched up, then split in two and scattered willy nilly throughout the world, as Hedwig suggests. I haven't believed that in a long time. I think people meet up all crunchy and jagged and nonsensically. But then I'm not in love with anyone right now. I don't know if I remember what it feels like, or why I'd want to do it. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/19/2001 05:36:00 PM ----- BODY:

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If anyone out there knows anything about SSI and ftp paths, could you please write me? The internet is trying to kill me! IT WANTS ME DEAD. And I regard it in a similar light. Unplug the big bitch. Here at East/West, we have a serious rule: no blogging about computers! I mean, we're all ON computers, so who'd want to hear about them? But. But. Everyone's got a big But, Simone. So I came home from the beach Sunday night and promptly fell ill. I have developed yet another stomach ailment. Readers may remember my last: a month of bread, rice, and water. I lost 15 pounds. Funny, just Saturday afternoon I was telling some friends that I was ready to lose that last five pounds. Well, then this is super! Whatever. And yet, eating one English muffin every day just isn't satisfying. Especially with a pepto-bismol chaser. I'm supermodel hungry. As my housemate The Scribbler has been out of town, and I was too out of it to throw an orgy with the house to myself, I took to my bed with the laptop and immediately began chain-smoking. East/West is getting ready to move to its own domain, and it's incredibly glamorous and looks great and is so close to being there. We love it. It's got our real names all over it. And our pictures. And all sorts of other things. And we're moving soon. A couple of weeks, max. Well, we're not moving unless I can figure out how to make the SSI work. Yes, I know the main page suffix has to be .shtml. I know all sorts of things. I just don't know why it won't happen. So from Monday until this evening I've sprawled naked on my bed typing, coding, chatting, smoking, and starving to death. I didn't go to work. I didn't answer the phone. I just programmed and smoked and coughed and smoked. My beard grew so thick that I had to use the Oster clippers tonight to shave. My cats have started to avoid me. Truthfully? Since I don't bathe at the beach, cuz I swim three times a day, I hadn't properly taken a shower in exactly one week. And, umm, I forgot to bring my toothbrush home. So I, uh, didn't brush my teeth. For five days. Am I gonna get dates now? Have I shown myself in a fabulous enough light? God the depravity. It's been a long raunchy week, and I'll never get these days and hours back. It'll be worth it when we move domains. I promise to do something interesting next week. I'm so sorry about all this. But really, it's for the greater good. I love this site but it's, well, it's not all I want it to be. I'm certainly ready to feel better. I'll take my good health out on some unsuspecting young gentleman. Any volunteers? And I PROMISE never to write about Side Server Includes again. Whatever the fuck they are, and HOWEVER they are supposed to deliver my data magically to another file, motherfuckers. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 7/17/2001 01:31:00 PM ----- BODY:

Suckin Me Dry

I don't know about you, but I'm in the mood for something a little bit different. That's right. I'm going to take a long luxurious break from writing annual reports to funders and looking at year end budget crunching. I'm going to serve up a stale day-old leftover free sample of highlight of my life. I will inevitably start to babble and wander, but for those of you who follow the path there just might be a treat at the bottom of your next box of cereal. The other day someone asked me what's new in your personal life. Huh? What is this strange thing of which you speak. Personal life? I felt like a foreign exchange student. I'm in the midst of one of my busiest months at work. There isn't enough hours in the day to accomplish all I need to get done, or at least not without working a lot of extra hours. Meanwhile the Board I'm the President of has been having problems. Two people resigned and in between trying to get them to reconsider, others were already politicing replacements. And what about psychic school - I am getting closer and closer to graduating and the energy on all of that is I should be doing even more to take full advantage. Speaking of school - this weekend a bunch of the guys are going to get out of town for the weekend. I told them weeks ago I'd be joining them. As the weekend approaches I don't see how and I want to cry. It's a Catch-22. I don't go and miss out on the big weekend and then my psychic friends jab me for not validating my needs first or I do go and get further behind on taking care of my litany of responsibilities. There's even more on my plate I can't get into today. I'm not even going to touch one particular drama I don't have time to get into right now. And there you have it. I'll try and share more about my present workaholic wasteland soon. If I don't, you know I'm working. Keep writing though. I can't wait for Trailer Trash Showdown, pt. 2. After all, my parents live in a double wide. I qualify. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/15/2001 11:35:00 PM ----- BODY:

Trailer Trash Showdown

[note to all: Okay, Reblogger and I don't get along. Thanks to all who wrote in. Away it goes, later tonight. Of course, with dear sweet but demented Blogger down all day, I spent the afternoon learning the ins and outs of Greymatter. Gosh, and to think Blogger is up for a Webbie this week! It wasn't even a website for most of the day!] I came home from a lovely sunny relaxing weekend at the beach to my own little slice of Jerry Springer. I brought my roommate, The Scribbler, out to the beach house and we had a delightful weekend of backgammon, suntans, pizza, and freezing ocean swims. When we got back tonight, there was a phone message from my mom, warning me that if I heard from anyone in the family, I should call her first for background. Umm... if I heard from anyone in my family, of course I'd call my mom! Not a single one of them has ever called my home in the 12 or 13 years since I moved out of my mother's house. I'd be so freaked out that I'd immediately think that either my mom was dead or that they were going to be in New York City to appear on, say, some talk show or other. My personal invitation to the drama came in the form of a letter waiting from my Aunt Janey in Michigan, our home base. I didn't realize this aunt had my address, much less the will to ever write me. So it was with more than a little fear that I opened the letter. My family is a little... odd. We all have, well, let's call them horrible backstories. We might pass for normal once in a while but keep us up late at night and we'll tell you things that you wouldn't believe about growing up. And of course family wreckage gets piled on wreckage and we keep smiling and not talking about it when we get together and watch everyone drink beer and push fattening Polish food in their faces as fast as they can. Well, evidently someone decided to start dishing the family dirt, and it's not going over well. In the envelope is a handwritten note and also a printed out email. I read the note first:

Dear nephew, I'm sending you this letter I just wrote to your Mom and your Aunt Suzie. You need to know what is happening in our family. Please understand, what these two have done has nothing to do with you. I want you in my family. I really enjoyed talking with you at Christmas. I'm still in shock about what has come to light this past week. I can't believe these two have been back stabing [sic] my daughter and I and being so nice to our faces. Just don't know what to say. But please know that you have nothing to do with our troubles. Love ya! -- Aunt Janie

How anxiety provoking! And quelle dramatique! For the record? Last Christmas is the first time I saw this woman since I was maybe 9 years old. We're wicked close and affectionate. Umm, what's her last name? I'm not really sure. So I turned to the printed-out email that she wrote to my mom (June) and my favorite Aunt, Aunt Suzie. She's an aunt I actually know from growing up.

From: Janie To: [about 6 family members] Subject: My Self-righteous, Sleaze Ball EX-sisters= Sleazy Suzie and Jackass June Just so you understand ME, you self-righteous, sleaze balls, neither of you two are any longer my daughter's aunt nor are you any longer my sisters!!!!!!!!!!!! [...] How could you have come to my home so many times and act like my caring sisters? You fuckin back stabers!!!!!!!!!!! How could I have been so very stupid to have believed you? Shame on me and DAMN your sorry asses!!!!!! [...] My daughter, my grandchildren and I want nothing further to do with either of you. Neither of you two fools are any longer any part of OUR family. Do you understand? WE want NOTHING to do with you two neurotic, deceitful, sleaze bags!!!!!!!!!!!!

And yes I counted the exclamation points. My first thought was: I guess Aunt Janey doesn't have the "wait 24 hours" rule about emails written in a state of rage! I stand firmly by the importance of that rule. Also: Ummm, why did she send this email along to be informative? It didn't say anything at all! Mostly it was just cussing out my mom. Did she think I would enjoy seeing that? "Oh, thanks Aunt Janey, you're right, the only member of my family who I ever really knew and who raised me singlehandedly IS a 'scurrilous, despicable, surreptitious...sordid, feculent sleaze sister'!" (I'm seriously quoting the letter here, people). I've called my mom. She's out doing something fun no doubt, having a good time, being... sleazy, perhaps? Or maybe sordid or feculent? Now it's 2:30 a.m. and I'm sure she won't call me back because she doesn't know I'm sitting here twitching with the adrenaline of major trailer drama. I asked her on the message to forward me the rest of the email correspondence: I hope it's as fabulously trashy as the sample I got! All kidding aside? Sometimes I forget where I come from and it's very useful to be reminded of the reality. Ugh. This is like being forced to leave a movie right in the middle. I hate not knowing everything. And evidently there's quite a bit to know. Well I'm going to bed with the phone next to my head. I damn well better get some answers tomorrow so I can jump in the fray and cuss out some family members! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 7/12/2001 12:32:00 PM ----- BODY:

My Siesta

While it may appear that I've been napping on the beach in Baja the past few days, reality is that it has been just the opposite. Everything is eating me alive right now. I'm still doing three people's jobs at work in the middle of one of the two busiest seasons with my work. I can't cover it all. It's just not possible and the prioritization of urgent tasks are frustrating. Someone resigned from the board I'm the chair of and everybody is politicing me regarding the replacement. Psychic school has been rather intensive and I've been put in the hot seat a lot lately. I missed a week while we were in Detroit and with just a two and a half months left prior to graduation they seem to be moving me out of the fire and right onto the grill. To top it all off there have been house guests and any free time I have had was spent with them the past few days. So no, you haven't heard about many things and the longer it has taken me to get back online the less I feel like talking about all of that. In any case, I'm going to try and get it back in gear here. I've missed you all like the flowers miss the spring. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/12/2001 11:21:00 AM ----- BODY:

Gay Pride Accidents

I ran into the Deposed Dotcommer last night. We hadn't seen each other in ages. He's been off at his summer house most of the summer already which is in a remote part of Long Island, which is mostly why we haven't seen each other. We caught up on each other's lives and he told me this story. I wasn't going to tell it here because I can't find a link for it anywhere but I'm going to scour the Internet until I do someday. This is one of those stories where you have to pretend you're not laughing because it's actually not funny. But then somehow I can't stop laughing. On Gay Pride day, The D.D.'er and his best friend Brawny decided they'd get into the spirit of things for once. You know how it is: millions of people cram into downtown and you think, God, I've just got to stay home today. Well this year they went whole hog. DD rented a pink gorilla costume. Brawny, the sexy Greek man, decided on a red rooster outfit. They went home, and giggling maniacally, they put on their giant Disney puppet outfits, took some pictures of themselves casually lounging, and then ventured out into the Gay Pride mayhem. Everyone loves a freak in a costume. They got whipped by some Dykes on Bikes. They were the love of children everywhere, and you'd be amazed how many kids go to Gay Pride. Damn liberal parents. I don't know how they stood the heat in their giant furry outfits. Ugh. So they cavorted up and down the avenues being generally loved by all. Well, at one point Brawny was simulated some oral sex on some go-go boys on a float. The crowd was screaming their approval. Of course the float was rolling on, and somehow the bottom of Brawny's furry red rooster costume got entangled in the wheels. The poor giant chicken began to be dragged under the float. The wheels of the float just rolled over him and kept right on going. It sprained his ankle and bruised him a little, but he's fine, thank God. That's a terrible way to die. But worst of all, the accident knocked off his chicken head and so his shocked face was exposed to the crowd. An ambulance threaded its way through the throng and took them to the emergency room. Poor DD squelched his giggles and played the supportive friend. But his cell phone kept ringing, and finally he answered it. Well everyone had seen the accident on TV: gyrating rooster goes down, is run down in the street like a chicken, gets head ripped off, and has his face exposed to the millions of New York One news viewers. Over and over again. They rotate that news in 15 minute increments. Oh the pain. I hear Brawny still doesn't have a sense of humor about it. I'm spending all my time preparing to run into him so that I can pretend I don't know anything about it. If it happened to me? I'd be pissed, horrified, embarrassed. But, unlike him, I'm a bit of a fame whore. I'd be pleased with my infamy as a mangled cock-sucking rooster. I'm not at all interested in getting run over any time soon, but anything for a good story, right? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/10/2001 05:12:00 PM ----- BODY:

Every so often people here snap. That's why we live in New York City. Bitches lose their shit and we got front row seats. Pretty Lizzie Grubman. Even with that hideous name, she was the queen of PR. Poor bleach blonde lady of the Hamptons, on a "J" basis with J-lo, having hissy fits over the wrong kind of cheese in the green room, drinking out of Madonna's glass. Was it the fulfillment of every imaginable fantasy? Obviously not. "Fuck you, white trash," she spat in a Hamptons nightclub doorman's face, then hopped in her SUV and sped backwards into him and more than a dozen other people, leaving people with fractured faces and broken limbs. I wonder when I'm going to crack? I kind of saw the beginnings of losing it today. I'm never going on vacation again: I came back to work to find a complete mess, the staff in mid-psychological breakdown. It seems the heat got to everyone, or they overdosed on their retard pills. Plus they were all bitching about what I'd left undone while I was away. Oh, did the world stop spinning? Well, guess we all lived through my incompetence. But then a bill collector from an internet company I advertise with rang for me this morning. I didn't take the call, and then he called back two hours later. That's my least favorite thing. Guess what: we have pens and paper. We write it down when people call. Sadly for him, I was answering the phone myself. It turns out our friend was collecting a paid bill, as a matter of fact, so I felt fully justified in being a total Lizzie Grubman. He got my entire crappy day. He got me staying at the office til midnight last night on my first day back at work. He got me falling asleep and jerking awake in meditation at yoga this morning in one of those horrible moments where you think that you just died for 20 seconds. He got this morning's therapy, which sucked: my shrink turned to me midsession and said, "We're not getting anywhere because you're wishy washy." After that debacle, I went to work, and in the two morning hours I'd not been there, multiple sets of people had screamed at each other and everyone was sitting around stony-faced. I let him have some of that, too. So I called him a white trash motherfucker and backed my SUV into him. Then after I hung up on the phone on his dim head, I wrote him a hideous bitchy email. Which bounced. Because the internet company who wanted to collect their bill from me was randomly, completely gone for no apparent reason. URL no more. Ha ha ha. What a stupid ass day. Well I had a good time in spite of it all. Or maybe because of it all. Chaos is thrilling. It's nice to be back in the swing of things. And I love getting mad at people now! What a great idea. Could someone out there please piss me off again? I'm starting to get the hang of this. Thanks, Lizzie Grubman, and thanks jackass accounts receivable! I owe you much! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/08/2001 08:45:00 PM ----- BODY:

the second time around

What a disconcerting weekend at the beach. Did I get my head together as I promised myself? Maybe so, maybe so... Saturday evening the lesbians, Lazy and Susan as I like to call them, at long last arrived. For years out there I've been trying to get the household in the habit of naked sunset ocean swimming. I mean, what could be more luxurious? Or, well, frosty and breezy and testicle-retracting. But Susan, the newest addition to our happy household, is really hammering home the nude and chilly agenda with me. So they showed up and we ran straight for the beach, ripping off our clothes with wild abandon and splashing each other in the sunset-hued waves like something out of The Blue Lagoon. Really my time on Fire Island involves putting clothes on and taking them off, hmmm, maybe twenty times a day? No, seriously. Constant outfit changes. So the icy swim really cleared my head. I went downtown and got us a pizza for dinner, and we sat about and lackadaisically shot the shit for hours. After the sisters retired to their candlelit lesbian bedroom, housemate Tiny Feet and I sat downtown and watched the drunk straight people wander from bar to bar. That amused us for hours. About 2 a.m., I went out for a long walk in the dunes under cover of darkness, wearing that always weird cool mid-July night outfit of athletic shorts and a jacket. In the spooky woods, under a not quite full moon, I met a couple who I'd encountered before, Rich and Jesse. Rich is, well, rich, and kind of an English dishwater blonde, and slightly balding, and sexy. Jesse is highly-strung with that wild-eyed look, younger, and has poor posture. They'd been together for a year, and were just starting to practice non-monogamy. I think in fact that I took the training wheels of their tricycle the night before, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. But the tension between them was high tonight. Jesse was accusing Rich of trying to ditch him out in the woods, and something in his tone made me turn to him and say, "You have an anxiety disorder, don't you!" "Oh my god," he said. "Yes, yes I do." So we spent about an hour comparing medications and treatments, our experiences with the ill effects of caffeine, our trips to the emergency room... Jesse was one of those ridiculous people with four doctors and prescriptions from each. I gave him my rap about cutting the crap and getting serious, but it wasn't taking, and I could see he was a little glassy-eyed. They'd done a little coke this weekend, because Rich was getting tired of controlling Jesse's drug use. I talked to them both individually for a while: I heard from Rich all about how hard he's worked at trying to get Jesse to help himself. I heard from Jesse all about how confusing and difficult life was and how bothersome Rich was with all his rules. Made for each other. After I got sick of them, just so I could get them out of my head, I gave them very explicit instructions regarding what was wrong with each of them. What the hell. It wasn't really about them: it was more like exorcising them for me. A bit of me wanted to break them up. Suddenly the idea of being a kept boy became very appealing. And if I'm going to be a houseboy, it's going to be for an Englishman like Rich with a beach house on the expensive side of town. The accent alone gets me hot. That reminds me, if we have any readers from the U.K. residing in or visiting New York City, now would be a great time to write me. English, Irish, Scottish, and Welsh: I just can't say no. It makes me melt. I turned down Rich and Jesse's offer of breakfast in bed. "I'm freshly divorced, the last thing I want to do is wake up next to someone," I told them. Which is very very true. Six months later, the most fantastic thing in my life is hogging the bed and waking up alone. Farther down the moonlit dunes, I encountered Geoffrey. I'd met Geoffrey a year ago and we'd had a rather blindingly hot one-night stand. He was overly excited to re-encounter me, and it turned out that if I hadn't lied about my name when we met previously I would have been massively stalked. But not displeasingly so: Geoffrey is a fun-loving silver fox from the Upper West Side, and a chef. We all know all chefs are crazy, so I immediately 86'ed him in my mind. But still we had a good time together. He's a great kisser and he laughs a lot. Geoffrey very much wants to go on a date. I don't know if I do. I might have to call him and ask exactly how old he is. I'm putting him in the 42-46 area, and I'm not sure I'm up for that. I mean sure a father figure makes me hot, but with all the money I'm dishing out for therapy, couldn't I resolve these issues while lying on my back on a couch, instead of on my back on some older fellow's bed? Unless of course he is secretly very rich. Or secretly English. My, I've gotten shallow and mercenary this summer. Oh but God, I think that judgement is exactly what's wrong with me. I have a couple of criteria for who I want to date, and when men don't meet those criteria, I tell myself I'm being shallow. That's retarded. I could insist that I only date men with 11 fingers and that would be within my rights. At some level I still don't believe I'm actually a person. Emotionally I recede and I date people because they want to date me. I get tossed on the tide like... like.. what? Kelp? Mmm, bad simile. But... But... Everyone's got a Big But, Monique. A few other memorable moments occurred: I saw the beginnings of a beautiful sunrise and I was overwhelmed to the point of tears with a sense of the concreteness of the spiritual. I watched some Sex and the City reruns and was rather disturbed regarding how much like my life it seemed. I ate some homemade strawberry ice cream. I met the sweet, talented, well-off, gorgeous man that my housemate Bossy Boots has been dating for the last couple of weeks. And I got some, how do you say, ejaculate in my left eye, and until then I had forgotten how incredibly painful that experience is. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/07/2001 11:17:00 AM ----- BODY:

pretty vacant

I did as a matter of fact get up early Friday morning. I cleaned up the house, which I had managed to trash in the short time I'd been back in town. CDs were everywhere, my half of the house looked like a giant ashtray, taco wrappers and dirty underwear everywhere. Of course I never offically unpacked. I threw a swimsuit and my laptop into a bag, got a croissant on the corner, and hopped in a cab. The driver and I had the obligatory conversation about how much we hate the mayor. You'd be amazing at how often you have to discuss your hatred for the mayor in New York. Once I had this fabulous Chinese taxi hack. He said one of my notable quotables about Rudy Giuliani, right around the time the mayor had prostate cancer: "He look kinda ill, maybe he die soon!" and then started laughing maniacally. I still say that all the time. I ate my croissant on the long island railroad, transferred to the boat, and arrived at my house in good time. All the doors to our cottage were open but not a soul was to be found. The day was breezy and clear and the sun was incredibly strong. I stepped out of my clothes and into an orange towel and walked barefoot the fifty feet to the beach. The beach was pretty full with people vacationing for the 4th of July week. I didn't recognize a person out there. I put my towel down above the high tide line and walked naked down to the blue blue ocean. The tide was going out or coming in so the waves were breaking pretty harshly a bit farther out, but there was a wide sparkling wash of inch deep rushing water coming up to the shore. I walked out up to my waist and stood there letting the icy water push and pull me. There were so many people, lots of them in couples, eating, sunbathing, chatting, listening to music, cruising, just walking up and down. I just stood there in the water until my legs got completely numb. Then I went back to the cottage and took a long heartfelt nap. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/06/2001 12:05:00 AM ----- BODY:

Who am I this time?

I was having a revelation when I left town and I don't remember what it was. Can anyone remind me? I've come back to my life and I don't recognize anything. I'm taking a little stock here on my reentry from our vacation to Detroit. Who are my friends? What do I like to do? What brings me pleasure? Troy from across the street was dying for a cigarette round about 2 a.m. tonight and it so happens I have just the thing for him, some duty free Winstons with Canadian warning labels, and we sat on my stoop. He looked great. Me being out of town really suits him. It was late. We were muddled. I tried to tell him where I was at. But the words just weren't there. Anyway, we decided it was about less talk and more pleasure. Less talking please. Well, what are words for? When noone listens, there's no use talking at all. I've missed reading my regular websites, blogs, journals, and other, umm, unnamed web presences (don't want to offend any of you sensitive people) in my absence from NYC. Tonight was my night to sit down and read 'em all. I didn't even make it through the B's on our sidebar reading list, though. Barb wanted to slit some throats today—I hear that, sister. People can be so tiresome. Matt's brain is baking in Fresno (go figure). E.B. gave me a horrid flashback to 1984 (yes some of us born early in the 70s were out of the closet and living in the real world, not hiding out in some stupid ass liberal arts college, but then who's bitterly turned against his generation? Yes, me, that's right). And then Dana made me fucking bust a gut and I didn't recover. God she kills me. I'll catch up on the rest of the internet this weekend. I haven't been eating right either since I got back. Yesterday I only had two vegetarian tacos. And today half a bagel before yoga, a slice of cheese pizza, a lemon zest luna bar (for women only!), and some cheese and crackers tonight. Oh yes, and a lemon Krispy Kreme donut. I love lemon. But what else do I like to eat, besides lemon flavor? Who am I anyway? Last night I was in my dining room and I realized it was almost fireworks time so I rushed upstairs. My building is only five stories tall, so we don't have the best view, but I climbed the tiny extra flight of stairs to the roof and I encountered a giant milling outdoor party. They were blasting Michael Jackson's Thriller. Where did they all come from? A couple dozen 20-somethings were teetering on my sloped roof, and all around us, at the top of every building in sight, hepsters and homeboys clung to the railings and fire escapes and parapets of our tenements. As I took stock, suddenly lights began appearing in the clowds over the river. It was the fireworks, but instead they looked more like a cheesy nebula on Star Trek. The clowds pulsed green and red, and from time to time giant sparks flew from their foggy tops. It was quite beautiful but somehow very sad. I remembered how frightened my dog used to be by the fireworks every year, and I missed him for a while. It's been so very hot and today a cold front slammed into the city while I wasn't paying attention. The sunset was beautiful and red and stormy and now I'm sitting here in my shorts shivering. Fuck it, I'm getting up in a few hours, maybe shortly after dawn, and I'm going out to the beach house to get my head together. I'm not all here yet, and I've allegedly been back for days. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 7/05/2001 12:46:00 PM ----- BODY:

The Daily Grind

I'm back at work and getting here today was a little gruesome. Not only did I not feel like returning to the office in any way, shape or form, but traffic completely sucked. I figured there was an accident on the freeway and there was - on the opposite side of the highway going in the other direction. All that bumper to bumper simply to gawk. Hippie Chick decorated my desk area with little "Welcome Back" messages while I was away. It was sweet. There's so much piled up here that I'm going to be running like a chicken with my head cut off for the next few weeks. I'm not looking forward to it. I have two staff to hire, many meetings to attend, year end reports to start writing, a few grants to deal with, yadda yadda yadda. It's enough to make a guy wanna yodel. There are several people on staff here who have Michigan History, and we're not just talking about the Womyn's Music Festival. I've been having lengthy discussions about Detroit and my vacation and as we converse I've been realizing how unsettling it all was, yet how much beauty there is woven throughout the city's gritty fabric. The people couldn't have been nicer. I'm down with the peeps of Detroit any day of the week. The police, systems and poverty - Detroit is one majorly screwed up place. I'm going to write a letter to the Detroit Free Press about my Motor City USA vacation at some point. The whole trip truly has opened my eyes in many different ways regarding this thing we call America. I have a pile of paperwork to get to. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 7/04/2001 06:50:00 PM ----- BODY:

Pyrotechnics

I remember when I was a kid my brother and I would ride our bicycles up to the grocery store to drool all over ourselves staring at the displays of fireworks. Eventually Mom and Dad would give in under our endless nagging and we'd get some money and purchase as many combustible items as we could afford. We'd always get some whistling petes, an array of fountains, some flower blooming thingymabobs that spun on the ground and looked like a neon flower. There were always boxes and boxes of sparklers and those little black pellets that would turn into snakes when you put a match to them. Now with everything being a fire hazard I don't see fireworks stands anymore. That truly saddens me. I was sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette and listening to the kids in the hood blow everything up. Initially I had thought that the house mate and I were going to barbeque then head over to the Berkeley Marina to take in three Bay Area fireworks displays from one advantage point. Instead he went over to a friends from work for a 4th of July barbeque and I can't bring myself to fire up the coals for turkey burgers for one. I'm preheating the oven for a frozen pizza. As I sat outside contemplating whether I had made an error in my communication with him, or if he had just suddenly changed his plans without notice or warning, a hummingbird flew up to me. It's little wings were beating very fast. It came within a foot and a half from my face and I felt that it was trying to tell me something. Like hello there, you're right where you're supposed to be. After a period of it darting to and fro around my head it zipped on up and disappeared over the tree behind our house. Carl left a message on my voicemail earlier today. He wanted to know if I'd had any interesting dreams while at home in bed after our evening together. I remember dreaming something, something important, but I can't remember what it was now for the life of me. I wonder if he and his wife are out enjoying the festivities up in River City. As for myself it's Independence Day and I'm feeling very independent right now, a little too much so. I think after I have some dinner I'm going to head on out into the madness and see what the universe may hold in store. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 7/04/2001 03:21:00 AM ----- BODY:

Independence and the Opening of the West

Traders, explorers, hunters, and adventurers marked the paths over which destiny took its course but it was the settler who, in the end, was most consequential in establishing the United States we now know. - Thomas Hart Benton

It's late at night and I've finished updating our sidebar. I can hear the sound of distant strings of firecrackers and small explosions through the dark night air. America is keyed up for its annual festival of explosions. Creeping into the wee small hours now of Wednesday's earliest morning I find myself still restless and beginning to mourn the loss of my personal freedom. Thursday I'll be returning to the office, returning to psychic school, returning to the routine and demands of others. While there's a certain beauty in participation, in being needed, there is still much I wish to explore unencumbered. I want to be a hunter. I'm still longing for adventure with unrelentless thirst. It strikes me odd that the final hours of my vacation fall on Independence Day. After witnessing the largest fireworks display in North America last week in Detroit, local pyrotechnics are leaving me slightly amused yet ambivalent. They say the skies will be clear for viewing skyrockets, an unusual occurence in the Bay Area this time of year. My mind is drawn again to fireworks of a different sort at this hour. I'm remembering last night's brilliant sparks when I paid a visit to the east bay social club. After spending a vacation featuring sexy strippers of both sexes and sharing a bed nightly with non-sexual close friends, I was eager to feel someone else's skin on mine in a different way. Carl was the chosen one and the fact that I was his caused the ignition. Quite tall, rugged, handsome. I saw him coming out of the steam room and was immediately intrigued. Soon we were engaged in conversation. Hunters and collectors. Laying traps. The smoke of sexual adventure thick in the air. At times intuition tells me more than I want to know. I knew he was married before he shared the information. He and his wife have been together quite a few years. Color the man bi-curious, an explorer from Sacramento. The connection was strong between the two of us, eventually leading deeper into a night of passion and flattery. Tasty conversation discussing spirituality, clairvoyance and Jungian psychology. Convinced that I was in control of everything setting a scene for seduction not easily avoided, I later found myself falling into an emotional well I had not placed there. Here was a man capable of igniting my heart, mind and body. Apparently he felt the same. It's not often someone tells you upon departure that "Thonight was the most erotic night of my entire life. Thank you." How does one respond to something like that? I simply said "Thank You" with a sense of glee and validation I was careful not to show too brightly. There was something incredibly karmic about it all though. I had the sense we had known each other during World War I and there we were sharing each other's company all over again, making up for lost time, knowing that he would return to his life, or his infantry, or something all over again. He asked if I'd see him again and I told him I honestly did not know. I wasn't in a place to effectively view the barometer of my feelings. I still don't know that I am. A chance encounter is fine, but a planned excursion? Would I feel like a potential homewrecker? A third wheel? Then again if his wife knows about it and she doesn't mind, should I? Throughout the day something he said has been wringing in my ears. "I have no doubt in my mind you'd make someone very very happy Flip." I believe that could be true on sunny days at least, yet the opening in the West I've been waiting for has yet to arrive and those making their way through other passages have often brought with them so many, how shall we say, complications. I'm enjoying my independence these days, savoring it quietly like a warm cup of chamomile tea on a chilly night. Most of the time I don't have the slightest feeling that anything is missing in my life. While RJ's crowning achievement, one worthy of major applause has been the loss of his regained virginity, mine has been a regaining a sincere sense of enjoyment in solo living. I know noone can make it entirely on their own though. In my earlier naive and angry years I didn't need anything from anybody. I could take care of myself just fine thank you very much. As I've gotten older though I see great value in needing, in being dependent on my friends, of being intimate and vulnerable. As a result of being able to receive support and to be there for others interdependence became a very real goal in recent years. In recent hours however independence has once again become a theme. I'll go to sleep soon, wake up, enjoy my final day of vacational freedom then light myself a sparkler. Can it be that in finding my sense of self that the opening of the West will bring greater and brighter things, even a partner worthy of settling down with? I suppose so. When there's a knock on the door and I hear it loud and clear please do not doubt that I will indeed answer. Until then I wait and dream in wonder. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/03/2001 08:21:00 PM ----- BODY:

Puissance De Fleur

"Will somebody wear me to the fair? Will a lady pin me in her hair? Will a child find me by a stream? Ooo, kiss my petals, weave me through a dream..." —Les Fleur, Minnie Riperton

I have huge news. As I mentioned earlier in the road trip story, Blondie practically double-dared me to have sex tonight, saying that I couldn't "get some," as he tastefully put it, in Manhattan with this haircut. Well I love a challenge, and tonight I decided to see if people actually ever did hook up over AOL. Well, all sorts of men were trying. I was overrun by a horde of monosyllabic grunters. Zipf's Law states that the shortest words will be used more and more frequently, but how sexy is it to type "How r u" repeatedly? Me like words. Words good. At long last one gentleman responded to me in complete sentences. Joe, judging by the pictures he emailed, is a big fella, 6'3" and 210 pounds, Italian, attractive but not hot. After the friendly chit chat, in which I was able to ascertain by psychic means that he was not an axe murderer (I asked, okay, and he said no), I decided to get my shit together and hop in a cab down to his Wall Street apartment. It's so beautiful down there at night, the tiny cramped streets and the impressive aged buildings, and I was looking forward to seeing his glamorous apartment. I got out of the cab a little early and walked down Broadway, with my headphones on, smoking my Canadian death-inducing cigarettes. Joe's doorman let me in and I headed upstairs. Mmm, doormen make me hot. Upstairs, Joe opened his door and I gasped in horror. No, he was okay, but his apartment was hideous. My eyes scanned the room, taking in everything: giant black leather sofas with chrome railings; a mirrored cabinet; the television tuned to Who Wants To Be a Millionaire; the glass coffee table with Entertainment Weekly; the creme colored Levelor blinds! It was the nightmare apartment of a mid-30s heterosexual man, circa 1984. Oh! Oh! Yes, there was a poster of the New York City skyline framed on the wall. "Is that so you remember where you are when those blinds are closed?" I asked. The hellhole was a third the size of my own apartment. He responded by grabbing me and kissing me, which is nearly always an appropriate rebuttal as far as I'm concerned. He was a delightful if unshaven kisser. One thing led to another, oh yes it did, and next thing I knew we were buck-naked on the bed, oh the hideous black polyester-duvee'd bed, ugh, with the mechanical bending clamp lamps next to it. Joe is a perfectly nice guy but he deserves to have his super-huge 1980s glass ashtray bashed over his head for the way he lives. Joe and I were getting along so well despite our aesthetic differences; we did have some things in common after all. All the lights in the apartment were on and the blinds were pulled up, for one, which I think we both enjoyed. And he did like to ride the shrimp boat. We rolled about and enjoyed each other in a carnal fashion, and then it became clear to me that Joe planned to go all the way. My mind began reeling. Honestly, I'd been saving myself for someone special! I'm kind of not kidding: I wanted my reentry to the ways of backdoor love to be something meaningful, as if I were a precious little flower. Contradictorily, the other part of me regarded this 5 year dry spell as a curse to be broken of as soon as possible. I put him off for half an hour while I debated. I looked desperately about the room for a copy of Anal Pleasure and Health. But he didn't have any books. What did I decide? Well, why am I telling you this story? That's right, I asked the immortal question: "Do you have any condoms? Oh yes, and lube, truckloads of lube, please." Part of my willingness was that, for a big guy, Joe didn't really have a certain horselike quality at all. Noone would be calling him Mr. Ed anytime soon, and that was okley-dokley with me. So I went for it. That's right ladies and gentlemen, I am now a trained buttsex professional. I twisted myself into a number of positions to remind myself how it was done. All that yoga is really paying off! The curse has been lifted. I have been unburdened of this weight. I am free to dispense my wares to anyone I wish to now, without worrying as if it were prom night and I was the good girl from the library with secret libidinous urges. On the cab ride back home, zigzagging from business district to projects to Chinatown, back to the other projects, and up into the East Village, I felt kind of sad, like I was missing something. Also I think somewhat I wanted someone to share this special moment with me after all. But guess what? I was being silly! I do have someone, and thanks for sharing this moment of freedom with me! At long last, in my case, it seems that I have freed my ass and my mind is following. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/03/2001 12:53:00 PM ----- BODY:

Fumer peut vous tuer!

Bon jour! It's Tuesday afternoon and I just arrived home in beautiful lovely New York City from my drive from Detroit through Canada. Hi New York! I love you! I'm sitting in my easy breezy carefree dining room at the big table, watching the wind toss the ailanthus branches, and eating crostino toscano (that's liver pate on Italian bread) and a sausage and polpettine hero sandwich, mmm, with delightful fennel seeds! I'm drinking homemade pink lemonade. God it's good to be home. Just yesterday, oh so early Monday morning, sleep-deprived Blondie and chain-smoking me pulled away from the Wayne County Detroit Metropolitan Airport, leaving you outside at the baggage check with those psychotic glam rock chicks. It's a damn good thing you didn't wear your thigh-high vinyl boots, black glitter fun fur, and 5 inch sunglasses as well! You never want to be wearing the same outfit on a cross-country flight. I'm glad it was so early or I would have cried. I'm sure driving and crying is a common occurrence in Detroit. In retrospect, I have to say Detroit is kind of hellish. It's fabulous, too, don't get me wrong, it's exciting and changing and vibrant and difficult and fascinating. But boy is that town fucked. I wouldn't have gone there with anyone but you, babe! It was more than delicious to see you. I sure wish I'd heard from a new reader in Windsor before we'd left the Detroit/Windsor area. I would have written him back immediately and we could have gone out for the inside scoop. In defense of his birthplace, Detroit, he wrote:

"Anywhoo, all isn't blight here. We do have that stinking plant, more Chryslers than any other city and more bowlers, too."

Well exactly! He told us great stories of being beaten up in the streets and neglected by police officers and arrested at raves by shotgun-toting cops. Yup, sounds like Detroit!

"Detroit's always confounded me; it's kinda like the Sanford of cities: arrogant, pugnacious, kinda daft but ultimately we put up with it and find it amusing."

Amen, baby. Anyway, dear Mr. Windsor, you're lucky I didn't get that email before I left town. With that picture of you on gay.com? You're immensely internationally stalkable! Based on the sample I've seen in person or digitally, I'd have to say that all of our readers are incredibly gorgeous, wildly intelligent, politically excellent, and are living well-crafted lives in unusual and interesting manners. This is the readership Martha Stewart would kill her family for! Anyway. Blondie, who, for new readers, is a 20-year-old angelic straight boy from the Pacific Northwest, and I set off from the airport for delicious Canada. Off we went on our Canadian adventure! Unfortunately, we pulled into the wrong lane at the tunnel from America, as the dinky little cocksucker border security guard dipshit whose booth we picked sent us off to be searched by customs. I thought I was finally going to get the anal probe, the one I'd been hoping for on our trip. But sadly no. Being Canadian, the extremely sexy customs officials actually properly repacked my hastily-stuffed luggage. It was worth the hour wait for properly organized clothing! That's when we noticed we had your suitcase, Flip. I was very much hoping you hadn't become a drug mule since the last time I saw you. But your stash wasn't in the bag, evidently. We were given a clean bill of health, even without rectodigital examination, and sent on our merry way. The only thing I have to report about Windsor (besides our excellent evening at the local stripper bar a few days back!) is that they have a diner named Crabby Dick's. Oh I nearly had to pull over I laughed so hard. Blondie napped and I drove, drove, drove. I learned metric conversions. I picked up some French (the language, that is). I blasted some house music. I sampled starch and potato products from Canada's fine American fast food establishments. Near the end of Canada, I learned that the freshly-awakened Blondie had never been to Niagara Falls! A travesty! I pulled onto the appropriate maple-leafed route and we arrived at the giant steamy basin. You know, Niagara Falls isn't that attractive, really. The Falls are all about volume, not about grace. That's why all the Americans come, I think. We hit the duty-free for some 20 dollar cartons of cigarettes, and successfully returned to America. The customs offical there cracked me up. He said: "Think carefully: how long have you been in Canada?" "Umm, 6 hours?" I replied. "And how long were you in Detroit?" he asked. I was so tired that his simple math made me paranoid. "Five days?" I ask-said. Please drive through, please drive through. But once we arrived in America we realized we didn't really want to be there. We parked and crossed the Falls bridge back into Canada on foot. All this border crossing was making me dizzy, as was our dramatic height above the rushing green river below. And why did we go back? Well you see Canada's legal gambling age is 19, and Blondie can't gamble in America. So we hightailed out of the gorgeous sunny day and into the nearest and blackest casino, proceeding to exchange American money, Canadian money, and fake casino token money into various amounts of other denominations. Honestly, I have no idea how much money we walked in there with and how much we left with. Whenever I would cash out my money, it always seemed like I was getting more, due to the depressed Canadian dollar. Blondie taught me all about roulette (how butch!), while I shared my inside knowledge of 25 cent poker slots with him. I can play the poker machines for hours, maybe even days, on twenty bucks, due to my escalating coin system. But I'm not going to share that secret with everyone. After a couple hours, and then a couple more, the constant ringing and smoking and ka-chinging and scariness of the massive casino started to get to us. Once again we crossed the border, only to find out that America charges a 50 cent toll to walk across the bridge! The very same bridge that Canada lets you walk for free. Isn't that shocking and typical? Stupid America. Back in Julee the pickup truck, we headed downwards and downwards through ridiculous New York State. Mmm, talk about blight. Buffalo, Rochester, Syracuse, Ithaca. What a mess. South of Ithaca, around 10 p.m., I was starting to twitch. My eyeballs felt like crusty squid tentacles. My back was contorted into a rigor of pain. Blondie and I partook of some Motel 6 with a particularly murderous, large, and terrifying desk clerk named Bryan, some shit-ass delivery pizza, and women's 9 ball on ESPN 2. I promply fell into a deathly coma. At 7:30 this morning I figured I could face the road again, even though I could still see highway when I closed my eyes. Blondie and I had had very similar nightmares about conventions and large groups of people. In my nightmare, I was at a western states conference in Hawaii, and everyone was in the pool playing a sort of ball-throwing game that I didn't know how to play. There was also a conference of very young people in New York City and there was a masked murderer on the subway that I had to save everyone else from. Hmmm. Anyway, I grabbed a chocolate covered and a lemon Dunkin Donuts, he got the monster sized coffee, and we began zipping our way towards NYC in earnest. Boycotting further fast food, as I am entirely composed of poorly cooked French fries and broiled chicken sandwich products after the last week, we decided not to eat again until New York City. And soon enough, there it was! Just as New Jersey stops being beautiful and hilly and begins to disintegrate into wicked stupid urban planning and grotesque air quality, the skyline of the City appears in the distance, looking for all the world like a magical storybook mirage. As a point of pride I insisted on taking the George Washington Bridge, with its spectacular support system and excellent view. Why enter a city through a tunnel when you can take a glamorous bridge? And I think that pretty much sums up our whole attitude on this expedition to Detroit, Windsor, and all the points in between. There are so many exciting people to meet and so many bizarre places to go, why waste your time down under the river in the dark, especially when you can't even change lanes down there? And now I have your luggage, my love! What's in there? Oooh, your new Diesel leather pants! How much money are you going to send me not to wear them tonight? After all, I'm going to be hitting the town tonight. It's the 3rd of July and I'm back just in time for some American jingoistic madness! I don't remember the last time I had sex, oh right, now I do, but that doesn't matter now. Blondie told me if I couldn't get laid in Detroit with a mullet, he wasn't sure how I'd do so in NYC. Well I'll show that little bastard! What do the children today know about getting laid? Well stay tuned, and I'll fill you in. I loved our trip to Detroit. I loved the fireworks. I loved our expedition to Windsor. I loved being so sleep-deprived that I had to go to bed or puke, and not being able to decide which one was more expedient. I loved the medusa-haired Korean woman at the coffee place who suddenly gave me that handmade bracelet on our last day in town. I loved meeting pregnant Patrese, who walked me all about the Renaissance Center to show me how to get on the highway properly. I loved dinner at Pronto. I loved thrifting on Fort Street, somewhere on the way to Mexicantown, that's right, just past Little Italian. I miss you madly, muffin. It was great to see you, it was totally lovely. I don't care where we go next. I'm thinking that maybe next summer we could go on a tour of the South? I haven't been to Florida since I was 15, and I've never been to the Keys, or to the Carolinas, for that matter. Maybe we could take a detour to Kentucky! I hear Louisville has a rocking music scene. That would be fantastic! There's got to be some urban blight and insanity there! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 7/02/2001 05:19:00 PM ----- BODY:

Tastes Good To Be Back Home Again

It was a crazy morning racing to get everything packed, the hotel taken care of and getting to the airport in time to make my flight. There was so much chaos at the airport, on top of the fact that neither RJ and I were functioning on optimum sleep levels, all of which contributed to my forgetting the other suitcase in the back of the truck. When I was checking in my luggage I suddenly wondered - "Uhm, Where's my other suitcase?" Thankfully it wasn't stolen as far as I know. I believe it's on a personal tour of the sights and sounds of Canada. USAirways placed me next to an African American mother and her son on our one hour hop in the wrong to direction to Pittsburgh. She was terrified of flying. Taking off she kept saying "Lord Jesus" over and over and over with a frantic tone. She finally dropped it with a pretty major glare in her direction. Soon enough I was off the plane and I was in the middle of the largest Airport airmall in America. I didn't feel up to doing any shopping. I was exhausted from our adventures in Detroit and it was hitting me hard. I stepped into a bar to smoke a very needed cigarette and got bitched at by the cocktail waitress for not ordering anything. I finished my cigarette anyway defiantly. Then I found a little breakfast in some tacky chain restaurant with an array of booze slurpees. Mmm. Ham and egg and cheese bagel. I almost cried it was so good. Then it was time for the second plane of the day, this one bound for San Francisco. It was a very uneventul flight. The East Indian couple I shared the trip with were as sleepy as I was and the three of us crashed out for most of it. I vaguely made an attempt at catching the flights rather dreadful sounding feature flick - Delivering Milo - but they couldn't get the sound system to work. Just as well. Dozing time. It's amazing what you can learn reading Jane magazine. I didn't know that Jay Bakker, son of Jim and Tammy Faye, was busy now with his own ministry to punk rockers, skaters and misfits at large. Did you know there were so many different things you can do with duct tape? I didn't. And with a little help from DJ Mart maybe RJ and I could have stayed in Detroit and risen to superstardom. You never know, right? It's good to be home. I left my car in long term parking and it only cost me $105 to get it out, about the same price of getting myself shuttled to SFO from the East Bay. Driving back I made my way through Bayview Hunters Point as a sort of reacclimation journey. I truly see the need for some sort of revolution. When I'm not so busy maybe I can figure out a way to help. I don't see freedom as being a key component for anyone without working towards it for all. The House Mate finished a gorgeous backyard deck while I was away. The power has been put in as well and with a little luck we'll have a hot tub in the backyard any day now. Luscious! I'm listening to Velvet Belly, that band from Norway that I've been looking for. Thanks to CD Now this hard to find Norwegian import platter was waiting for me when I arrived. Very impressive female vocals and dark moody lush orchestration. There's even an excellent cover of "The Man With the Child in His Eyes" by Kate Bush. Delicious. It's so hot here today it feels fantastic. Perfect weather for a homecoming. I think I'm going to unpack and catch myself a little nap. I'm desperately in need. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 7/01/2001 08:57:00 PM ----- BODY:

Detroit Rock City

Greetings from Detroit, Michigan, on our last few hours here. It's been absolutely fabulously hectic here since our friends arrived. They flew in on Thursday and have monopolized RJ's and my attention ever since. Just now we've returned from an excellent dinner at Pronto in Royal Oak—tasty and delicious. Now we're lounging in our hotel room on the 38th floor of the Renaissance Marriott Hotel gazing out at a country in the midst of a celebration—Canada Day. Dr. Needles, RJ and I took a trip to Windsor, Ontario on Thursday night to soak up some local Canadian culture and talent. We took the tunnel over, negotiated our way through customs (scary!) and found our way to the infamous Happy Tap. Located just a short distance from the border this little establishment hosts a disco upstairs with a bar and pool table, and the most amazing all nude, all fully erect, male strippers downstairs. Listening to the sounds of The Weather Girls I was reminded that gay culture seems to cross all boundaries. It reminded me of something Quentin Crisp once said—"A lifetime of disco music is a high price to pay for one's sexuality." The boys were all into checking out some Maple Leaf man action, while I wasn't into even going to another strip show. I personally don't understand the rationale of forking over the money to get all titilated and worked up only to end up more sexually frustrated than when you started. But who had to lead the little chickies downstairs to take it all in up close and personal though? Ahem. We paid our cover and I found us a table right on the edge of the center stage. It was a very surreal environment, beautiful actually, rather dimly lit silvers and blues. A parade of Canada's finest made their way to the stage and presented the single most erotic experience I've ever witnessed. It was bizzarre. The men were gorgeous and while there were many very masculine "dancers," the highlight of the evening had to be "Jacob, The Vampire Slayer." Entering the stage in a pair of white boxer briefs, a white fluffy fun fur open jacket and a pair of 70's rock star glasses, Jacob was obviously trained in classical ballet. His music selection: Kissing You by Des'ree from the movie Romeo and Juliet. I was like, what the fuck? He's going to perform to one of the saddest songs I know? Sure enough, he did just that, beautifully choregraphed, unbelievably poised—he showed me beyond the shadow of a doubt that stripping is an art. Revele with a roaring major hard on. I urged the boys to go ahead and pay the 10 bucks (or 7 dollars Canadian) for a more personal perspective on it all, but I think the whole experience had overwhelmed their senses. With all of our hormones a little more active it didn't take much work to convince the guys that we should pay a visit to Vesuvio, the bath house in Windsor. It took a little work to find it, as it's located on a sleepy residential side street. We pulled into the parking lot and as we made our way to the door a bearded man with a thorazine slur opened the window on the upper floor and was leaning out to see us. "Look, new guys. Three of them! And they're hot guys too. There's three hot guys coming in soon." We assumed he was talking to someone inside, but we had our doubts. Opening the door to Vesuvio was like opening the door to the world of David Lynch. Nobody was at the entrance window which allowed us the opportunity to take a further step into the dark paneled world without a sound. There wasn't any music, just an overweight Latin man naked and asleep on a thrift store sofa and two men sitting at a small table area playing cards. One was in his seventies and was obviously covered in prison tattoos. The other had his overweight highly pimpled back to us. There was clearly something dark and wrong going on here. I looked at RJ and Dr. Needles and we quickly made our exit. The rest of our trip has been fun, but certainly not as interesting. We went to a couple of clubs and a rave, all of which were remarkably unremarkable. The key essential has primarily been catching up with old friends and spending some quality time together. We've been out to eat at Loco, were surrounded by teenage girls who were downtown to hear N'Sync in concert while we were feasting at Papalis. We've had dinner with show chicken producers. We've taken our own scenic tours. The new developments alongside the city's ruins create such a juxtaposition that one can't help but find themselves astonished. I assume many of the burned out and boarded up buildings can be attributed to Devil's Night, something that makes me feel good about not living here, even though I can honestly say that in spite of it all RJ and I have pretty much fallen in love with the Motor City. There's no place like it. Taking it all in with RJ, who makes me laugh like nobody else, has been a trip beyond my wildest dreams. If I'd gotten laid once while we were here it would have been perfect, but that will have to wait until I'm back in the Bay Area tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to returning to our bi-coastal friendship experience, though I am looking forward to returning home. My flight leaves early Monday morning. RJ's going to be dropping me off at the airport on his way, returning to New York City on an adventure in his pickup truck through Canada. Our intracontinentalism returns quite soon! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/28/2001 12:03:00 AM ----- BODY:

Ka-boom Time!

Do the hustle! The corpse flower is blooming in Detroit. Amophophallus titanum has only bloomed 15 times in the United States. They say it smells like a rotten decomposing human body! That's a strange time for that to happen. Because today is a happy day, the biggest party day in Detroit—and in Windsor, Detroit's ugly Canadian sister. We had a great time, marred only with one incredibly unpleasant incident. Today is the annual giant fireworks display that celebrates Canadian and American Independence Days, and 1.6 million people crammed into downtown to see it—and eat sweet fried dough of course. See, it's dough, there's all this sugar in it and on it and it's fried! Oh yeah! Anyway, I don't know if Windsor's ugly. I've never actually been there, though I stared at it from the hotel room window throughout the day. Flip and I talked about getting international, but we were more or less being held hostage by the Big Event. Roads are closed in places starting at 3pm. We didn't want to get stuck somewhere and stuck close to home. I am looking forward to making a run for the border and reaping the bounty of its depreciated dollar and Canadian hunks. For I am that rare breed, the Maple Queen: he who is fixated on hockey players and men who say "aboot" and "ootside." But I was talking about today, today, a day that celebrates love, understanding, and one big global groove across national boundaries. The streets were mobbed, thronged, packed, I'm talking wall to wall people. Nobody seemed to work today (and from the looks of the streets at 2 a.m., no one works tomorrow, either). We wandered about the Civic Center, taking in the happy people, with their blankets and coolers. Many were frying hot dogs on little grills set up beside their little lawn chairs. There were slamming DJs, a whole damn lot of babies, and some really fierce two-part pantsuit/halter top outfits. People camped out 12 hours in advance for the fireworks, which starts at 10:06 p.m. annually. The exact midpoint between Canadian and America's Independence Days. 10:06 p.m. These people are crazy!

Finally, FINALLY, the sun went down and the sky darkened. Spotlights played in the air from both the American and Canadian sides of the Detroit river. The crowd was rocking up and down. Guys were rapping from newspaper boxes and making us all "wave our hands in the air." You know, as if we just didn't care, right? A helicopter flew back and forth over the river, trailing an enormous American flag. How patriotic! Applause filled the air. The pyrotechnics were about to begin! Ka-boom Time: The Headline for the day in the Detroit Free Press.

The fireworks were thrilling. They went on so damn long that after a while we forgot they were still going off. I had gotten used to the ear-piercing banging and popping, the ooos, the ahhhs. After about ten minutes of daydreaming I came back to consciousness and realized that these fireworks were pretty damn impressive. Flip said it was the most amazing mindblowing display he's ever seen in his life. Still, deep in my cynical heart, I know very well that the cost of 20,000 pounds of explosives could easily cure Detroit of much of its urban blight. Of course the Canadians were just laughing at us, with their national health care and their adorable strippers. Damn your sensible and caring ways, Canada! After that party broke down, it started to get a wee bit ugly on the streets of Detroit. But we were starving after midnight and decided to head back to Greektown, the only place with food after 11 p.m. We could see that it was one big amateur drunk night which is always problematic, but there were tons of cops out so we thought, hey, how bad can it be to walk four blocks for a little late night dining?

As it turned out it wasn't the drunks that were the problem. About halfway to Greektown one of a group of four of Detroit's finest suddenly reached out and grabbed Flip's upper arm. "Hey," he barked, "What are you hiding in your pocket?" "Umm, nothing," Flip said, and started to reach in his pocket to show the officer the two dollars worth of change he was carrying. The cop then grabbed his hand and arm even harder and screamed "Don't stick your hand in your pocket!" It got really ugly very quick and this cop had such rage in his eyes it was very very scary. I stepped forward to try to calm the guy down but another cop started to step between us to separate us. Oh shit, I thought. This is it. I couldn't remember the things you're supposed to do with cops. To his credit Flip at least appeared relatively cool considering his cival rights were being violated, in addition to him being practically assaulted. He just stood there and let the cop search his pockets, hmm, ID, cigarettes, and change. I of course start talking incessantly when I'm scared or agitated and I started telling them all, "We're just tourists, we're staying at the Marriott, we're just walking through for food..." Blah blah blah. Shut up, RJ. The cop gave us a look of pure hate and then let us go. He was a fucking freak. The woman cop of the group then actually smiled at us and said "Have a good night." I said "too fucking late" and we walked away. We still can't figure out what happened and why. I mean, he couldn't get us for anything no matter what we had on us due to illegal search and seizure. Any idiot knows that. The best he could have done was bring someone downtown and hold them til they got whatever they wanted. Mmm, that would be terrific. No thanks, Detroit! I'd really rather not. This guy came up to us as we were (very quickly) walking away. He said, "Damn, I saw that whole fucking thing. That was so fucked up. I would have been a witness for you." I thanked him, he made me laugh, telling us stories about the whole staff at the Marriott getting drunk to celebrate the Freedom Festival. In parting, he said "Now don't you ever say black people are paranoid about the police." Yeah right: Flip lives in Oakland and I live in New York. All that stuff about racial profiling, rogue cops, and Amadou Diallo? Pure paranoia, uh huh. Just cuz we usually get past the radar with our white faces doesn't mean we're clueless, sugar. Greektown was mobbed with people and we ended up back at the Plaka, that diner, and truly had the most delicious French toast and pancakes ever. God it was good. I really needed something to calm me down because I get really and truly pissed off at encounters with abusive authority figures. Flip tried to make sense of it, but there wasn't any sense to be made. After dinner, a couple smokes, and a good laugh with our fabulous waitress, we were ready to leave. I was all for getting a cab home, but Flip wouldn't let me. "I'm walking back the same way we came. I'm not letting anybody have that much power." So I got my shit together, and we walked through the post-party mess and mayhem and returned to our hotel. I'm glad we did. One fucking old bastard cop could have scared me off the streets of downtown Detroit forever, and I'm not really one to go out like that, you know what I'm saying? Yes, I rather think you do. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/27/2001 01:19:00 AM ----- BODY:

Welcome to Detroit, an adventure in urban decay. I was waiting for my luggage in baggage claim at Detroit's Metropolitan Wayne County Airport and RJ was nowhere in sight. I smoked a much needed cigarette in the thick Michigan air. Someone told me it was only 40% humidity today. I can't wait for the good stuff! Returning to check on the whereabouts of my belongings I suddenly heard a voice behind me. "Tondelayo, I have come to help you!" The up close and personal reunion with RJ in the Motor City had begun. We drove downtown to the Marriott Renaissance Hotel, checked ourselves in, freshened up, and wandered off in pursuit of all that Detroit has to offer.

Downtown Detroit is a glamorous place. The urban blight, the closed buildings, the nearly naked homeless people finding themselves a place with a little breeze. Tonight we discovered Greektown, an unbelievable downtown neighborhood where Greek music fills the air, literally. It's piped out through speakers for an entire downtown block. The little Greek and American flags over the street, the neon advertisements beckoning us for gyros, the unexpected lure of gambling in the gigantic Greektown Casino - it's all so colorful, so international!

When we entered the casino Tina Turner was belting "We Don't Need Another Hero, We Don't Need To Find A Way Home, All We Want is Life Beyond the Thunderdome." RJ and I were living it. The casino was full of men and women, mostly black, in search of their American dream at the roulette table. We sure do love the sound of slot machines. After a whirlwind spree, a few nickles poorer, we left the chilly air conditioning in search of nourishment.

The Plaka is located right in the heart of Greektown. RJ had lamb meat with his eggs, which he didn't touch. I played it safe and went for the charlbroiled chicken breast sandwich, fries and cole slaw. Over dinner we sat staring at one another in a glaze from our day of travels and discussed the possible adventures that lie ahead. Tomorrow is the highlight of the International Freedom Festival, celebrating the freedom of Americans and Canadians with activities from both sides of the border. We aren't going to miss the famous tug-of-war across the Detroit River between the Detroit and Windsor, Ontario Fire Department teams. After all, we're talking about firemen. We're also going to be joining over a million of our closest friends for the annual fireworks display. After dinner, heading back to the hotel, I noticed the Bouzouki Lounge out of the corner of my eye and decided we should stop in for a cold one.

We were greeted warmly by the exuberant, yet world-weary cashier who charged us each a $5 cover. Once inside we noticed a stage in the center of the room with two gold firepoles at opposite ends. Attached to those poles were wildly gyrating topless women in g-strings. We had discovered Nomi Malone's hangout by accident. It felt a little like wandering into One Eyed Jacks from Twin Peaks. We popped into the Men's room to figure out our game plan, only we weren't alone. There was a sign on the wall: "Gentlemen, our restroom attendant works for your tips. He is not paid." Bob was seated at a small table full of candies, colognes, and shot glasses of single cigarettes. While RJ was giggling in a bathroom stall, I had difficulty peeing at the urinal with this wacko watching me. We took care of business though, RJ tipped him, and we planted ourselves at a table not too far from the stage, but not too close either. After a couple sets of dancers, the cocktail waitress brought our order and we played a few rounds of "Name The Heavy Metal Band" that soundtracked their performance. (I think that one was Staind.) A young lady approached RJ. "Do you mind if I sit here?" Lisa joined us at our table while another dancer named Roxie was on stage stripping out of her blue velvet mini to reveal a series of strange bruises. Lisa and RJ engaged in conversation while I watched with complete interest, the same way I have to slow my car when passing roadside accidents. I'm not saying I don't find women attractive. The first dancer on stage was totally hot. If she had asked who knows what would have happened. Roxie, however, was a different story. Lisa told RJ all about herself, that she's a single mother of two. She came back to Detroit to live with her mother for the free childcare. She asked what we were in town for, noting that she found it odd that we were from opposite ends of the country. RJ explained that we were in Detroit for a Vacuum Cleaner Salesman convention. She explained that she was a military brat and had been to every country in the world, though her lifetime traveling experience had left her feeling ungrounded. Once a deep personal bond was established between the two of them, Lisa confessed that her best friend was dying of cystic fibrosis. In fact, when Lisa's not stripping she spends most of her free time doing benefits for the cause to help save his life. RJ nipped it in the bud and explained to her that the two of us are gay. Meanwhile Roxie had finished her set, come over to our table and manuevered her ass right into my lap. The cocktail waitress came over again too, as if on cue, to see if we needed anything after she just filled our order. She had a tray of shots in test tube glasses in her hand. Roxie asked, "Can you buy me a shot?" I caved and pitched in the $6 for her tequila. She asked the waitress, "Can you serve it to me?" The waitress deep throated the closed end of the test tube with her head back and Sarah manuevered her way famously through the process of transporting the liquor into her own mouth in an almost lesbian make-out session manner. It was very impressive, yet highly bizarre. After a little more conversation Roxie asked, "So, would you be interested in rubbing hot oil all over my sexy naked body?" I looked at her, looked at RJ and Lisa who were laughing hysterically and said, "I don't think so." Roxie replied, "Why, don't you think I'm sexy?" I said, "No, not really." Roxie replied, "What's wrong with you, are you gay?" Lisa and RJ were peeing their pants. After that was out in the open, and we all breathed a sigh of relief at the Bouzouki. Roxie and I talked about many things from the need for 24 hour pizza around the world to music. When she found out I like techno she left to fetch me a flyer for a rave this weekend called "Lost in Bass". All the necessary information, along with info on a very cool Detroit pirate radio station, can be found online. Detroit is, after all, an international DJ mecca. We made tentative plans to go and to meet Roxie there. We chit chatted with our new gal pals for a while. They were the nicest strippers two gay guys far from home could ever hope to meet. They make us both think about moving here. The party broke up when it was Lisa's turn on stage. RJ slipped a ten in her g-string on our way out the door. By the way, does anyone know what a good tip is at a stripper bar in Detroit? We're talking a tip for exchanged possible truths, not exchanged bodily fluids. I need to get to bed. This time difference has me thrown for a bit of a loop. It's only been a few hours with RJ in Motor City USA and I can only imagine what fresh pleasures tomorrow and the rest of the week will bring. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/26/2001 02:15:00 AM ----- BODY:

The sense of relief and wonder I felt today changing my voicemail at the office, signing out and driving away knowing I'm not returning to work until July 5th was pretty unbelievable. Everything had been taken care of and even I was amazed. Now my bags are packed, I'm ready to go, I'm leaving on a jet plane. RJ's picking me up at the airport in Detroit. We'll see you soon from the Motor City! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/25/2001 08:03:00 PM ----- BODY:

Last night a waitress saved my life

I'm in Ridgefield, Ohio. I don't know where that is. I know I'm closer to Detroit than to New York City. But then the majority of towns in America are. Oh wait, I'm actually in Richfield. Wow, the map says it all! When I close my eyes all I can see are flashing white highway dividers. And hairy truckers... And fantastic waitrons named Mel! More on Mel later! It was beautiful and cool and summery all across Pennsylvania. Remember trees? I certainly didn't. Now they're all I know. My ride has the loudest speakers ever. The highways are very nearly empty. Up and down. Up and down. Over the highest point on I-80 east of the Mississippi! Whee! My right arm is tan. My left arm is sunburned and I'm heading west. This Budget rent-a-car pickup truck is much butcher and badder than the teeny one I had last year for my road trip to Minnesota. For some reason they gave me the monster version for the same price. Yay! For the first 200 miles, I couldn't think of what to name it. I kept trying on names. Patty? Selma? Juanita? Shirley? (Shirley is out of bounds because I named the car I totalled on that road trip three years ago Shirley, after Shirley Muldowney). Then I remembered something panchesco said to me recently: He said, "I've set my inner Julee on Cruise control." Julee! YAY! Before Julee I was just calling it The Mulletmobile. I figured that was redundant. Last night I was hiding from the police with Troy and Larry in Tompkins Square Park in New York City. Today I hid from the police on Interstate 80. I'm phobic about tickets. A couple of years ago, on that very same 13,000 mile road trip where Shirley met her untimely demise thanks to the deadly combination of a silly little girl named Lupe, badly designed construction signage, and my haste to get to a bathhouse, I was pulled over late at night somewhere in Southern Illinois. I had just seen a low white car at the side of the road and swerved a bit to avoid it. That car was a fancy pants sneaky boots police car and they pulled me over for merging lanes without signalling. Grr. They actually made me get into their weird racecar-style cop car with them. The cops were really, really hot. They were straight out of military porn; stoic, chiseled, and wronged. Their line readings were terrible; I should have given them a breathalyzer. I played really really dumb and got off with a ticket after 15 terribly Lynchian minutes of interrogation. Kinda hot, kinda not. Where was I? Oh yeah, this road trip. Guess what? All sorts of gays from all over the world drive to New York City for Gay Pride! To think I didn't even walk the 6 blocks to get there. I'm rather ashamed. The funny thing is that all these queers who drive to New York drive back when it's over. I met these two cutie tattooed scruffy-looking boys and their adorable butch and femme gal pals at the first rest stop (umm, YES the dykes were driving, go sisters!). They were from somewhere I believe was called Buttfuck, Ohio? Then I was accosted by some bear at the next rest stop. The hirsute one drove all the way from Ann Arbor, Michigan for NYC Pride with, I might add, his much hotter brother. In retrospect? The guy hit on me really hard. At the time I was just trying to open up my pelvis by placing my inner knee on the top of the steering wheel. Maybe that's what got him triggered. Anyways, for some reason I went and told him what hotel we're staying at in Detroit. Doh! What was I thinking? He doesn't know my name, but if he's a really dedicated bear-stalker (or would-be husbear? Eww...), I'm dead. Later a trucker tried to pick me up in the restroom at the same rest stop. I folded like a laundromat. I just couldn't do it. I'm sorry, Flip. I'm such a failure! At Denny's here in Ohio the waitress had a giant 4-foot balloon animal wrapped around her head. She told me that "they" come twice a month and make balloon animals and she wears them to make the customers laugh. Her name was Mel, she's kind of a big girl, and she is starting to get in trouble at work because she keeps feeding the homeless. Evidently, people walk into Denny's all the time and don't have enough money to eat. Who knew? Mel buys them soup and lets them hang out and drink coffee. I had been wondering why I was sitting next to a drunk homeless man at a Denny's. He was irritating me until I heard more of the story of Mel, the saintly waitress. Mel's getting married soon. I know because one of her bridesmaids was there in a booth. I'm really hoping Mel doesn't lose her idealist streak after she's wed. One of the truckers at the counter was teasing her after the homeless guy left. He said, "That drunk guy asked me for a smoke and I said no. Then he pulled out a pack of his own cigarettes!" "Oh yeah?" Mel said. "Maybe he likes your brand better." The trucker said: "I can see him right now walking across the highway to that bar." "Hmm, maybe he's thirsty," Mel said. She then proceeded to gently but firmly rip the trucker a new one. She told him how she only believes what people tell her. Until proven differently, everyone is telling the truth and gets equal treatment. Then, "if I find out they're lying, I turn on them. But never before." The trucker was disgruntled and she just kept picking at him until finally he cowered before her unbending goodness. Mel single-handedly restored my faith in humanity, order, systems, and belief; yes, the same faith that had come crumbling around my ankles (right next to my pants) last week. Thanks Mel! I wish I'd left her something better than cash. But I don't think I had anything more meaningful on me. The very least I can do is praise her here in cyberspace. Maybe some day, maybe after her honeymoon, she'll look up "Mel Denny's waitress Ohio" on the internet and she'll find this testimonial. Thanks Mel! You make everything worthwhile! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/24/2001 08:53:00 PM ----- BODY:

San Francisco Gay Pride Day 2001

My new friend Jessica who was visiting from New York City for her straight sister's wedding explained to me as we were being pummelled by starlight mints from a passing float that San Francisco kicks New York's ass when it comes to Pride hands down. She's right and I have the evidence in pics to prove it. I'm glad I went. I got there just in time to catch all I really wanted to see. Found parking on the street two blocks from the epicenter and in a matter of seconds I was soaking in it.

A chill in the air didn't keep glamorous beauties like Cockatelia and friends from celebrating.

These folks look like experts as far as I can tell.

Miss San Francisco Latin 2001 had grace and glamour.

The whole day was, well, queerific. "Queerific" was the official theme for Pride this year. I didn't care much for it initially, but I have to say it grew on me. Sister Roma, MC at the main stage, would comment on everyone's queerific hair, queerific talent and isn't this crowd queerific? She ran it so far into the ground she's still cracking me up. God bless you Sister Roma!

Who knew? Did you know? I didn't know he was, y'know, that way.

A friend of mine is Miss Ivy Drip. She was riding on top of a long black hearse.

These folks are French Canadian! They shouted French Canadian things!

A Quarter Pounder with Cheese does sound good, doesn't it?

Then I ran into Miss Lorraine Dubonnet. She sure was looking queerific, wasn't she?

I don't remember what product or club or agency or group these boys were representing, but whatever it was I support it.

Isn't she amazing? Seeing her was one of the highlights of my entire day, along with the incident with that homeless drag queen who wouldn't leave me alone unless I gave her a dollar. I lost her though and ran into the Diesel store and ended up doing a little shopping. Afterwards I made my way over to Pow! at Sixth and Mission to wish Eddie V., one of our readers, a very happy birthday. He wasn't there, but some totally kickin people were. Happy Birthday Eddie! I almost didn't make it back in time to catch The B-52's.

They played a great set to a crowd celebrating a veritable cornucopia of personal sexual peculiarities. I think it was Kate who shouted, "Shake Your Gay Asses People!" I also decided something today that really surprised me. I think I'm in love with Fred Schneider. He can marry me any day. He was shaking it all over the stage and what can I say? I love a man in polyester.

You're living in your own private Idaho. RJ lives in New York and I live in California. Where do we all go from here to a better state than this? I've got it! Michigan! RJ's already on the road and I don't catch my flight out until Tuesday. He's actually picking me up at the airport. I'm really looking forward to seeing him. Right now though I better get back to takin care of business. So much to do and we'll be in Detroit Rock City before you know it!

-------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/24/2001 12:06:00 PM ----- BODY:

Preparations for Exodus

I love toast. I believe toast is nature's most perfect food. I'm listening to Gilles Peterson's double cd Worldwide import. At some point I'll haul my ass over to partake in celebrating my homosexuality. After all, the B-52's are playing. I'm too involved with my breakfast right now to make the trip though. I like my eggs over hard, very hard. I like my toast toasty. I like my orange juice with lots of pulp. I like my days carefree, to skip down the sidewalk whistling a silly tune. After all, we're going to Detroit soon! There are many things to attend to before I board that airplane on Tuesday. Important things. The kind of things they pay me to do. Things that someone else could do, but they won't, fools, and they'd be disgruntled with me when they realized it wasn't taken care of. I don't like leaving myself unguarded for target practice. While I'll probably never end up on one of these cards, I'm smart enough, good enough, and gosh darn it people like me. While life will probably never be bullet proof again, I can live with that and will just do the best I can. Besides, perfectionism is a miserable way to live. Earlier I was sitting out on the trunk of my Volkswagen Jetta smoking a Parliament and greeting the world with a certain nonchalance. The squirrels were frolicking like rats with big bushy tails, carrying large nuts in their greedy little mouths. I noticed that our rose bushes out front are blooming. A pair of doves kept circling my perimeter. The sleepy sububurban neighborhood was alive with it's native flora and fauna. I couldn't help but wonder about past lives. Can we reincarnate as a chipmunk? Have you been a giraffe before? I realized that in my psychic readings I have never seen such things, though I couldn't help but wonder if that was because I wasn't open to the possibility. Yesterday I was at psychic school all day reading and I kept being assigned to give people past life readings. Their usually interesting, particularly when you realize you knew them before yourself way back when. The blonde girl who had broken up with her boyfriend and the Asian gal who was an incredible healer and I had shared several journies before over time. I'm more interested in sharing this journey with RJ right now though. I returned to the office last night after my clairvoyant overload and attacked my workload, accomplishing a great deal. I was pleased. There is still too much on my plate to handle though in the few hours I'll be at work on Monday, so I may need to head over there again tonight after Pride. Somewhere in my schedule there is laundry that needs to be washed, packing to do, all those necessary distractions that allow one to travel well. What should I wear to Pride? I don't think I have the energy for getting all dolled up. I think it's going to be a Freshjive olive green clamdiggers and a plain white T-shirt kind of day. It's all about comfort right now. It's a necessity to simply make it to the finish line. After all: Flight Departure 48 hours and counting. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/23/2001 12:37:00 PM ----- BODY:

Paint a Starry Night Again, Man

That’s one thing that’s always been a major difference between the performing arts and being a painter. A painter does a painting, and he does a painting, that’s it. He’s had the joy of creating it, and he hangs it on some wall. Somebody buys it. Somebody buys it again, or maybe nobody buys it, and it sits up in a loft somewhere till he dies. Nobody ever said to Van Gogh, "Paint a Starry Night again, man." You know, he painted it, that was it.
-Joni Mitchell

One of the few interesting cliches my Xboyfriend used to repeat is: "Sometimes you have to let art wash over you." Take a patient second with me here. All will be revealed if you just swing with me. Let's have a deep breath together and a cleansing moment. I forget every once in a while to slow it down. I think I'm going to take off my Kenneth Cole Prada-knockoffs. There, that's better. I have burned my candle at both ends for quite some time now and I am desperately in need of vacation. What a coincidence! I leave in 40 hours for Detroit. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in at least a week and I'm whupped. In fact, I just told some idiot at Fedex to go fuck themselves, which is NOT like me. I pity the fool who bothers me at work for the next 3 hours and 47 minutes before I go on vacation (but who's counting?). Thunder is cracking through Chelsea. It's black outside and pouring sheets of rain. That's perfect for how I feel. I can't believe I'm wearing a suit in this humidity. I feel like yesterday's baked potato, shriveled and baggy. I went to hear Troy sing on Thursday at the Starlight Lounge. He was incredible. I had dinner last night with a gentleman who IM'ed me out of the blue last week, a reader of this blog. That was amazing as well. Let me tell you all... Troy once said something to me about seeing Sarah Vaughan and her seeming to channel some alien being when she sang. Troy has a touch of the AZ about him as well. That's the mark of magic in performance. He was no more--or it was an even deeper him. There was something so very funky and honest and lovely. He would crouch at the edge of the postage-stamp size stage, puffing on a cigarette, while the horn man had his way with us in the dark room. It made me a little weepy, really. Hmm. I'm going to have to go back for more. I, and everyone else, can go every Thursday in July at 10:30 p.m. I'm glad I went with a good and loyal friend. Sometimes, when you go see art, you can get lost in it alone and you need a pal to keep you tethered to earth. Just like channeling. Afterwards, we sat on my stoop and took it all in. What a lot of freaks there are in the East Village. God bless them. I kept thinking, I've got to get out of this city. Oh and thanks for trying to pimp me out on your site. That's sweet! I think this is my theme these days. I get pulled from force to whirlpool to shiny object. I am magnetically attracted to talented, forceful, turbulent dervishes of men. Oh and I forgot to add "unavailable" to that list. Indeed. And when it rains it pours. I'm totally frustrated. I'm tired and I don't have a lot to give other people right now. It was swell but the swelling's going down. Do you hear me? No one at Westerberg is going to let you play their reindeer games, Veronica. Shoo! I banish you. God helps those who helps themselves and I'm on a mission. Okay. I'm being silly. But this is a fairly earnest plea to the Universe that I acknowledge receipt of the message. Get this, and then I'll tell you about dinner with the mystery reader: remember how I ran into that Brooklyn guy in the West Village this week, the very day after I'd slept with him? Well guess who I ran into again today? Good gravy. How could you possibly meet someone three times, in three different places, in a single week in New York City? Shut up, shut up! Make it stop! And yes he has problems. That's a given. He offered to take me on a vacation with him in a couple weeks. Oh gee, I'd love to, umm, what was your name again? Sure let's spend some quality time alone together. So, you know how you meet someone and you're like, "oh, it's you," even though you've never seen them before? That's what dinner was like last night with Mr. Noho, the aforementioned reader of this blog. We went to a dark cavey and loud Italian restaraunt and had penne and delicious tap water. Meeting people often fills me with anxiety, but I didn't feel it in this case. So you know how naive teenage girls, a tribe of which I am proud to call myself a member-at-large, make little cedar wishboxes of their dreamy grownup womanly lives? If I had a picture of a future husband in that dumb box, it would pretty much be Mr. Noho. Articulate, funny, gorgeous, self-aware, intuitive, et cetera et cetera. Fashion-forward. Incredibly alert eyes. Employed. Ha. I'm funny. Anyway I should have recorded our conversation. It was incredibly useful to me, but it flowed all over and past me like water--or art. If there was a theme, it was transitions. We're both changing into different people, kind of against our wills, and I don't know about him but sometimes I'm scared of all the change. Who am I now? Fuck if I know. But, in talking, I got really good out-of-body perspective on the magical unknown process by which I already became who I am. So I figure I can do it again. This is going to sound a little weird. But out with Mister Noho, after all the laughter and the great times and the hijinks, the running into bizarre people like my hilarious and aggressive artist friend Polly and my heavily cheek-boned pal the Glamazon from Oklahoma in the West Village, and watching the early tidings of Gay Shame Day manifest on the streets and in the parks, after we parted ways and I walked on home alone, I felt really sad. Something in our conversation stuck in my craw. Very rarely it happens, but from time to time I'm overwhelmed by the mistakes of the past. The wasted time. The inappropriate relationship partners. The struggles to make something out of nothing. Truly a lot of this is being tired catching up with me, and listening to Joni Mitchell for the last two days hasn't helped, damn her. I got home and threw myself dramatically on the bed and had a little cry. It does seem I've made my bed, and now I don't like the crumbs on the sheets. My fault, my fault. I think the people call it lonely. And unsatisfied. Problems of my own making. Hmm. The obvious becomes obvious. So that's my story. Life is fucking strange, painful, and fraught with meaning right now. And it's great. Make hay while the sun shines, everyone. Don't forget, this is all there is, life and how you live it. Me, I'm going to bed after work, crumbs and all, and starting my day over. The next time you hear from me I'll be somewhere in Pennsylvania or Ohio, all alone in a pick-up truck, wearing a pair of polyester short shorts, teaching my mullet about its heritage. I'll have a new wardrobe, a new attitude, and a freshly regained sense of adventure. How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten! It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. Well, goodbye to all that! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/23/2001 01:15:00 AM ----- BODY:

My Night With Mermaniac

Like Chesterfields, tonight was the right combination. I spent the evening with Bill. He's very good people. My first thought regarding Mermaniac was, "Showtunes? I hate showtunes." Then Bill won one of our contests, I met him for coffee and we hit it off. I'm glad I've moved beyond my cast chorus prejudice and I'm getting to know one of my fellow Oaktown bloggers better. What did Bill and I end up doing? Uhm, well, we went to the theater of course! Any show about a little girl who will kill for the lead in her elementary school play can't be all bad. In fact, Ruthless The Musical was pretty darn good. I met Bill after work and we got caught up before hand, during intermission, and after the show. Hottest topic: The 24 Hour Blog for Charity Day (you know Bill's doing it in the buff for Broadway Cares, right? RJ and I are contemplating charitable action as well.). Other Hot Topics: Certain Bloggers, Vacation Plans, trying to figure out who is responsible for what in The Backroom, and this weekends Gay Pride festivities. Not Hot Topics: Work, the Return of Cooler Temperatures, Work, Certain Bloggers, Work, and the California Lottery. I do have my ticket though. It's a shot at 123 Million now. It's hard not to succumb. My day at the office was pretty awful. I'm getting fried. There is so much to do before I leave town and while a grant went out today I can't seem to make headway in completing all of these major projects before I go. People are on my case. The phone was ringing with complaints all day for me to attend to. I just about blew a gasket and I have more to do so I'll be back there tomorrow after psychic school. Thank the baby jesus for my night of Showtunes. Did I just say that? I'm not going to go looking for the cd or anything though. Still, it was just what the doctor ordered. And now, I must go to bed. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/21/2001 10:28:00 PM ----- BODY:

Long Days Journey Into Night

Here we are, the longest day of the year. It's been a scorcher. The non profit where I work can't afford California's outrageous electricity prices and air conditioning has been kept to a minimal throughout the day. Consequently I feel gritty and tepid as the night air begins to drop the temperature a few degrees. I've been talking with Chris tonight and it's been very enlightening. He's good people. His site is featuring a great little story that is certain to get everybody ready for our big Gay Pride Weekend here in the Bay Area. Tim will be in town for the festivities. There are always amazing sites to see (link via Soapbox Girls) on Pride Day. Typically I don't know that Pride Day means very much to me in San Francisco. It meant more when I've lived in smaller places. To walk down the street here and announce to the world that you're gay is rather anticlimactic. For the past decade I've usually had a job that has put me in the parade itself. The one year I didn't I was one of the many who flee The City at this time every year. The whole place turns into a zoo. There's no escaping it. You either have to roll with the flow or hide out. This year I feel a bit like Camper. If it wasn't for the fact that The B-52's and Me'Shell Ndegéocello are playing I'm not certain I would even make it. There's so much to do before I leave for Detroit. Nevertheless, Brian and half a million others will probably see me rollerskating in drag down Market Street. George was telling me that his wife is trying to get him in drag for the celebration. That would be something I'd pay to see. My day has been spent almost entirely at the office. I expected that. I'm not surprised. There is a great deal to accomplish right now. I have taken a few breaks from time to time to check in on the others though. I''ve been following Jerwin's quest to lose a few pounds with a little concern. I'm one to talk though.

Ingested today: Morning: Two eggs One slice of multigrain toast (dry) Small glass of orange juice. Iced decaf coffee with nonfat milk Afternoon: Small bag of M and M's Cheddar flavored Potato Chips Green Squall Powerade Evening: Nothing

Do cigarettes count as a food group? I hope so. Here's to shedding the Winter weight the wrong way. Bobofett continues to inspire me on many levels. I have my moments in life when it is still a challenge to be true to myself, to the real me, and I'm grateful every time I am. Marn reminded me today of a rather frightening period in my life. A few years ago my doctor found a lump in my chest. Later that day I was at the breast cancer center for an emergency appointment. When I spoke to the woman at the front desk she stopped me cold with a smile. "There's no need. We know who you are. There aren't many men who show up here." They performed a mammogram on my right pectoral muscle as they explained to me that men do indeed great breast cancer. It was a very strange and disturbing process. While the end result was that I had acquired an odd misplaced calcium deposit, one that has long since vanished, I'm sending out some love and light to Marn tonight, our lady of the queers. Sometimes things don't go the way we hope they will. I hate it when that happens. Sometimes things aren't always as they initially seem. I often love it when that happens. It's the longest day of the year, and with that will come the shortest night with the planet Mars low on the horizon and visible to the naked eye. Before you know it will be Pride. It's all good as long as it takes us where we need to go. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/21/2001 08:52:00 PM ----- BODY:

Customer Service

RJ and I are currently evaluating what it is we're doing here at East Coast/West Coast. Is it what we want? That's the most important question. But we also wonder - are people enjoying it? Do we make any sense? Can you follow what we're doing and saying on our little adventures we call life? We've purchased a new domain and we'll be leaving Blogspot in the near future. We're also working on a redesign as well. Whenever I move I enjoy sorting through what I own and getting rid of the things I no longer want or need. In essence we're actively taking stock and inventory right of East Coast/West Coast these days. Soon we will be saying goodbye to Flip and RJ and saying hello to ourselves. We see this all as a great opportunity to start fresh. In this process we've had many conversations recently about what we would like our new site to be like. What we want to see continue, what we don't. While ultimately we will, of course, do what works for us, many of our conversations have brought in what we believe you enjoy and I'd rather here your thoughts directly. While we're pondering whether we're a journal or a weblog or somewhere in between, if our restrooms are fresh and tidy, whether the contests continue and if so what they should be like, if orders are filled in a timely fashion and with a smile, we sincerely welcome your opinion right now. Take a moment to share with us, laugh with us, dance with us, sing with us. We know we have many regular readers and now would be a great time to drop us a line. Is there something you want to see stay? Is there anything we can improve on to make it easier to read (be nice please)? What has kept you coming back? Part of what we're enjoying about being citizens of Blogville is being part of a community. We'd sincerely appreciate your input baby. Thanks! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/21/2001 01:37:00 PM ----- BODY:

She stoops to conquer

I think the most romantic thing in New York City is a porch stoop. I don't just mean romantic in a lovey-dovey sense, but romantic in an idealized nostalgic sense (no I don't at all mean it in relation to music of the 19th Century). Weren't they always on a stoop in... you know... those books? Oh you know what I mean, get off your high horse. I have a pretty tiny stoop, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in location, living as I do on what might be the busiest street for foot traffic in Manhattan. It's officially not cute and summery anymore. It's fucking hot and grimy and my feet are swollen like a pregnant woman's. It's that oversaturated feeling. There's too much nitrogen or something and there's also too much water in the air. I'm just a huge manatee, as the song goes, trying to live on land. So by the time I get home it's all about having a sitdown on the stoop. Last night around 10 p.m. Dr. Needles and I picked up some vegetarian tacos and orchata, mmm, summery orchata. We stooped. I smoked. We screamed at Troy until he descended from his realm, fearsome dog in tow. Troy smoked. People rushed by. I noticed a statistically improbable number of homosexual gentlemen holding hands. Damn gay pride. Where do they all come from? Dr. Needles went off to an 11 p.m. dinner at the Brasserie. 11 p.m.? Where are we, Portugal? Anyway, Troy and I smoked some more. Suddenly, Troy's stalker magically appeared. He has tiny tiny feet. He also wears pants like a sausage wears its casing. And he literally has a psychotic twinkle in his eye. His appearanced caused us great personal tension that we were unable to deal with. Instead we froze, smiling, always smiling... We were far too nice to him. I suppose it's good, though, to find out if people respond to boundaries and manners first, before you send in the rabid poodles. But I wouldn't know. I had a stalker for about 8 years. He was my high school boyfriend. Well, he wasn't actually IN high school with me. I wanted a boyfriend who was over 21 and could buy me alcohol. I overshot a little—I was 15 and I think he was 35 at the time. So our ages were a little.. uneven. We never really broke up. I mean, I just got tired of using him. I loved to sneak out of my house in the middle of the night. He lived downtown, right by the el train, and he would make me little pots of espresso and we would smoke Camel straights and maybe we'd have a few beers or a joint or something. Okay and we had sex sometimes. Yuck. He was Not Hot. He was, frankly, not aging well, stringy, and bald. He did have great fashion sense though. So of course I never broke up with him, I just treated him like local furniture and, you know, left town. Somehow, over the years, whether I was in Los Angeles, San Francisco, or New York, he always had my current address and phone number. He nearly always seemed to call at 2 a.m. Flip used to pick up the phone and it'd be him, and Flip and I would have urgent sign language conversations about me not being there. But often I took the calls. He was usually unintelligible. He had a thick accent (for no apparent reason) that got worse when he got tired or drunk. So over the years he kept calling, threatening to visit, begging me to come to Chicago to see him, sending me photos of his paintings of famous English murderers and of Pakistani boys. Sweeeet... He called less and less as time went by. I was completely noncomittal. Often nonverbal. One day I was coming home from work, oh this must have been three years ago? Four years ago now? I turned the corner and there he was, sitting on my stoop. I nearly choked to death. My first impulse was to duck behind the cafe across the street, but I thought he'd already seen me so I just sallied on bravely. I invited him in (which you're never supposed to do with vampires, I know) and we had the most excruciatingly boring dinner and conversation. I remember sitting at my dining room table, smoking and smoking, and thinking... nothing. He talked and I listened and I couldn't tell you a thing he talked about. It was like a long word bath. I thought my eyes were going to peel off the back of my head. But more than bored I was just disappointed in myself. Why hadn't I told this man to fuck off a good long time ago? I didn't pretend to be interested, but I never said, let's stop talking. Part of it was that I felt sorry for him. He was often suicidal, he was troubled, he really liked me and related to me and didn't have anyone to talk to. Why that was my problem I'll never understand. I got him out of my house with some excuse. Evidently the long-awaited reunion hadn't gone as anticipated. Maybe he noticed that I was just a glassy stare. In my mind I was buying curtains at some K-Mart, long before they had a K-Mart in Manhattan. But he left my house and I never heard from him again. Do you think I could have saved myself some pain and suffering? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/21/2001 02:42:00 AM ----- BODY:

A Slight Case of Overbombing

It was so hot today I didn't wear underwear. I wanted to feel summer breezes through the cotton of my Banana Republic khakis. I couldn't fathom the thought of one more layer of fabric between me and the outside world, even if it meant my balls would stick to the side of my leg off and on throughout the day. That I could handle. Everybody talks about the weather. Strangers on the street: "Is it hot enough for ya?" People at work: "Can you believe this heat?" Sometimes it takes things like extremely obvious climate changes to break down the little barriers between ourselves and our neighbors, simply so everyone can state the obvious to each other. It seems we've reached a consensus. Let's get a burrito. When I tell people that I'm taking a vacation soon they typically say, "Thank God." It's no secret how busy I am and I haven't taken a bonafied break since the annual family Christmas wing ding. "I'm really looking forward to some time off and getting away. It's overdue." They smile and nod enthusiastically. Then they ask, as those wishing to appear interested in one's life usually do, "Where are you going?" Truth is it's getting painful to answer. To see the look of shock, horror or astonishment on someones face one more time when I happily answer, "Detroit!" "Detroit? Did you say Detroit?" And so it begins. "No, I don't have family there." "No, I've never been there before." "Yes, I'm spending the week with RJ and Sneaky Pete and we're meeting up there." "No, they don't have family in Detroit either." "No, they've never been as well." Its as if my upcoming holiday is a puzzle that must be solved. The little wheels in their heads keep turning and none seem able to reach a satisfactory explanation for my completely irrational behavior. Truth is I don't have the answer for them. Why Detroit? Hmmm, Because it's there? My plate at work is full these days and in serious danger of spilling over and onto the floor. I think I've already lost a couple peas. I'm trying to do everything I normally do, business as usual, and take care of two weeks worth of work in a couple of days. Everything needs to be kosher for all while I'm out of town. I think I have a responsibility complex. There are grants to write. Interviews to schedule for job applicants. Pow wow's to be had. I might pull a late night tomorrow at the office in an attempt to get ahead of it all before the weekend. Eek! I'm being attacked by lawn moths. This time of year they sneak in through the screen on my window and find some unknown location to breed and multiply. Moths are probably having sex somewhere very close to me right this very minute. I must kill them. I must kill them all. I almost had sex tonight. I went to a party after work and I met this guy. Very cute. Scottish/Arabic. We started talking and soon we were laughing and carrying on in that knowing way that somehow defies the fact we have never met before. He invited me over to watch TV and I went. Unsolved Mysteries was on. A lady was healing sick animals all over the world with the use of her magic T touch. We smoked cigarettes and handled the age, rank, serial number particulars. I used the restroom and on my way back down the hall he walked right up to me. He said, "You're so mysterious. I could see how you were looking at me tonight, yet you don't seem to be the kind of man to make the first move." I'm game for a dare when I hear it. I grabbed him, pulled him to me, and we started what was to be a very hot make out session standing in the hall. A few minutes later we parted lips, his blonde head tilted to the left with a coy expression on his face. "You have such a sexy ass, I hope you like using it." I explain that generally I like to catch and pitch. Meanwhile my head is thinking about whether or not I even want to have sex with this new guy yet. It's nice to savor the intrigue a bit, let it steep and steam, right? Then he says, "Cool. And just so you know I only bareback. Is that a problem?" A garbage truck might as well have fallen out of the sky. I tried to regain my composure, but I was not able. I just lit into him. "You only bareback? Of course, that's a problem." He looked at me with a touch of surprise. "Really? Huh, well, can't blame a guy for trying, right? Maybe next time." "Next time? There isn't going to be a next time. Even if there was, would I suddenly be interested in fucking without a condom anymore than I am right now? No. I wouldn't. Condoms for fucking are the line for me. Period. And yes, I can blame you for trying. Barebacking, particularly on the recieving end with a relative stranger is about the stupidest thing I could be doing tonight off the top of my head. I'm not saying others may not have a problem maintaining safe sex practices and I'm sure there's a myriad of issues. I don't though. Consequently, I'm offended that you've obviously mistaken me for a reckless idiot. I'd rather smoke crack. I'd rather bang my head repeatedly in the street til it bleeds. HIV rates are up again in the Bay Area for gay/bi men and I'm so fucking sick and tired of people I know being oh so fucking sick and tired, or dead, or taking copious amounts of toxic medication daily, frying their kidneys and livers..... -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/21/2001 01:33:00 AM ----- BODY:

v o t e

If you appreciate Blogger, the site that made and makes East Coast/West Coast possible, please take a minute to cast a vote. You'll be glad you did. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/20/2001 08:17:00 AM ----- BODY:

Sing Blue Silver

Join us in a tribute to peace and beauty. Join us in a tribute to cheese sandwiches and bad punctuation. My hats off to you RJ. Thanks for keeping it real. I find myself reminiscing about one of my old high school typing teachers. Sandra Simmons was a lady who got stuck in a serious case of Rhoda syndrome. She sported the poodle dog perm, big round tortoise shell glasses with pink tinted lenses, and a wardrobe that particularly highlighted the many autumnal shades of brown and orange all year long. The year, however, was 1981. I remember one Monday morning. All of the juvenile delinquents who were taking typing as a slack class, myself included, were gabbing about this new wild thing called MTV. I'd spent the entire weekend glued to the set watching video after video. Mrs. Simmons overheard us and interrupted. "I watched that MTV thing this weekend myself. You don't really think it will last, do you? I mean those crazy bands with those ridiculous names? Duran Duran? You know they aren't going anywhere." Sandy then called the class to order and popped in her favorite rhythmic typing practice music, Walter Murphy and the Big Apple Band's "A Fifth of Beethoven". I can still hear her calling out all 26 letters to the sounds of black velvet classical disco.

Sandy was wrong y'know. Driving into work this morning I was listening to Rio as I admired a powder blue Chevy Nova in the lane next to me. Inside were three elderly ladies wearing wigs. Not mild mannered short grey tea and crumpets wigs. Big full beautiful heads of bouncing and behaving hair. The sun was shining on the Bay as I headed over the bridge, saluting them, and I thought about how happy I feel seeing people avoiding the trap of getting so caught up in what's expected and what other people might think of them. I realized something important last night. I'm just not interested in having a relationship right now. Seems everybody has this picture that there must be something wrong with you if you're single. Well I am and there's not. I'm experienced enough in matters of the heart to know that even if I had someone special in my life that we wouldn't necessarily take a right turn down easy street. Relationships require work, attention, care, things I know I just don't have the adequate time to give right now. Life is full, colorful, interesting. I can't imagine giving up any part of it to make room for Mr. Right. Other than having quality cuddling between the sheets from time to time, there really is no void in my life to be filled. I'm not missing a half. I'm young free and single dammit and I'm happy! My, that's a very different place to be compared to my usual stomping grounds.

Case in point: Flashback to my first boyfriend and fellow typing classmate. Billy and I were best friends. We had the same Charlies Angels T-shirt. I knew he was something special the first time I saw him. What can I say - I was in love, enough so that my needs were lost along the way in favor of Billy's needs. I wasn't as important to me as he was. At the time we seemed so were very much in love. Well, at least when he was drunk. Sober he never seemed to remember how important I was supposed to be in his life. As time continued I tried manipulating the situation, plying him with booze, whatever it took to have Billy at my side. The end result? He outed me on campus out of fear he might be labled a fag himself. As a result other guys at school started paying more attention to me, guys like Troy Swanson. Everyday he would pin me to a locker with his band of bullies. "You're a sick little cocksucker, right?" The routine went that I had to tell him,"Yes, I'm a cocksucker" or he'd pound me into the ground. Sometimes they would anyway. I don't begrudge Billy for throwing me the wolves anymore. At the time I could have murdered him, but I'm so enlightened and spiritual now. It was many years ago and I can see his need for self preservation. What I do begrudge, if anything, was how willing I was to sacrifice myself for the sake of having "that guy" in my life. I sincerely hope those days are over. Rumour has it Billy is tweaking on crystal meth holed up in a cabin somewhere in Montana these days. As for Troy Swanson, I had the last laugh. Once graduation was over I discovered just how fast someone's front lawn dies when you spraypaint it all hot pink. Punk rock landscaping. I think his parents had to pull it up. Last I heard Troy was still in prison.

Driving home last night listening to "Save A Prayer" I couldn't help but laugh. The past couple of nights at psychic school have been most interesting, but then they always are. Yesterday we were actively working on the removal of any blocks in my relationship space, any family programming keeping me from having the kind of relationship I truly want. Funny thing for me is that once all that crud was out of the way I discovered I'm liking being single right now. Friends and family are the ones really is invested in me shacking up. No, I'm not bored and lonely thank you very much. Of course that's their definition of happiness, why wouldn't they want that for me? In class tonight we learned about Christforce energy and how to use it to give healings. Powerful stuff I tell ya. After practicing Christforce healings on one another I have to say I feel accutely present, clear and hopeful. Oh, and forgiven, for everything. I can't help myself. It's a new religion. Can you believe we'll be rendezvousing in Detroit just one week from tonight RJ? And on top of that we'll be moving when we get back. We purchased a new domain ladies and gentlemen, yeah, we really did it. We're actively working on a site redesign that will bring with it the end to our anonymity as well. I'm looking forward to letting it all hang out. On a sidenote: We planned a 15,000 site visitor contest. The universe had other plans though. Thanks to Steve at Riley Dog and the folks at Metafilter the magical digit came and went sooner then anticipated. Dear 15,000! You were great baby. Amazing, an animal, I felt the earth move. Yes, I was fantastic, wasn't I. Hahaha! You make me laugh. I think I need a cigarette after that, dont you? Again? No, not today and I'm not looking to settle down right now either. You can call me though. You were the best ever. Honest. Bye 15,000! Time to make some breakfast and get it in gear. I have no complaints. It's a brand new spankin' beautiful day and its supposed to be even hotter here in the Bay Area. Turn up the heat! Bring on the rolling blackouts! Don't say a prayer for me now! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/20/2001 08:14:00 AM ----- BODY:

Agenda

I have therapy in an hour. Almost always I arrive in a great mood for my twice a month appointments with my swishy, vicious, incredibly expensive mad scientist shrink. I adore the crazy man. So I show up on the Upper West Side (hey, it's only a 10 dollar cab ride, and we get to cut through Central Park), perky as all get out, but more often now when I sit down in The Leather Chair (no never the couch) my attitude fades. I think I'm doubting the whole thing. Therapy's very fairy tale in that you have to believe. Okay, I have to interrupt this post. PB&J, our old rocker friend, just paged me, which is quite unusual. I didn't even know he had my pager number. So I called him back and we're chatting (don't forget it's before 11 a.m., the crack of dawn, and I'm sitting here in a towel trying to get my shit together. I'm hardly verbal). He's gonna spend a lot of time this summer in California. That's perfect, it's where he belongs. I mean, he is a surfer boy. Well he wanted to let me know that he's going travelling early next week. He's taking off on a big motorcycle cross country trip. He's leaving early sometime next week and umm, he's going to visit an old friend in DETROIT as his first stop! Hello! Oddly, fantastically, both you and I are going to be in Detroit next week! Wow, a special guest star on our Detroit extravaganza! This would be a good moment to send a shot out there to any Detroit-oriented people. Where's the party in Detroit, people? Where's the diner that I have to order the insane salad at? Where's the seamy trannie club? What should two fellas who've never set foot in the town know? Anyway, back to therapy. I need to figure out what the hell I want to talk about. I guess I want to head off any anxiety experiences I might be having about travelling next week. I don't feel the anxiety now, but I think of getting on the Metroliner, going to Philadelphia, getting the Budget rental pickup truck and hitting the 600 or so miles to Detroit and I get a little spacey. I mean it's not like I know where I'm going, how I'm getting there, or where I'm sleeping on the way. So there's that. I'm probably going to talk about having put in a phone call to the exboyfriend and now putting it out of my mind while I wait (or really, DON'T wait) for a response. It's out of my hands now, right? And we'll continue our little theme of me trying to save the world. Oh whatever. But mostly I'm not going to hit the wall. This is how the wall goes and it's an old tired story: We begin, and I become sleepy. Or disinterested. We start to get into a discussion and I stall out. He starts to ask me why I'm not making eye contact, why I'm simply agreeing with things he says. Then I tell him that he's obnoxious and pushy. And that this whole scene is manipulative. I ask him why it's so important that he try to engineer me having feelings. He asks me why I'm unwilling to express feelings in front of him. I tell him it's not him, it's people. He tells me people aren't there. I say, what are you, Manimal? You're people. Then he says, there's only two of us here. And I say, well isn't that one too many? Then he cracks up and we're back to square one. I'm so not up for that conversation. The point it seems to me, the elusive point that I keep missing, is that my shrink is my partner in crime. I somehow keep thinking that he's doing things to me -- he's trying to make me mad so I can explore that, or sad, or angry or whatever. Then he keeps asking me, how does that feeeeeeel? How do you experieeeeence that feeling physically? blech. When the real deal is that he's my assistant. He's not an authority figure, he's not a manipulative bastard, he's working for me. So I'm gonna enter the Magic Hour in a spirit of partnership and freedom today. I'm certainly not going to have some meta-discussion about how therapy is supposed to work again. Hello, could anything be less emotional and personal, and more detached than a dry discussion of the process itself? I've been in therapy since I was five. I used to play board games with my shrink. I wonder why I was in therapy? Was it all the fires I kept starting in the house? My unwillingness to shower as a small child? Hee hee. If I ever doubt Dr. Shrinko I should really remember the state in which I came to him. Fresh from a trip to the emergency room from a major panic attack. Unwilling to get in boats, cars, elevators, planes. Unable to leave a moldy corpse of a relationship. In six months we've come a long fucking way and it hasn't been because of an adversarial relationship. Between him and this site I feel like a new man. But which one? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/18/2001 10:49:00 PM ----- BODY:

Alive with pleasure!

What a great fucking day! I wasn't sure what I was doing in town, having just suddenly come back from the beach. But now I understand all. The account of our morning together posted by Mister Blogstalker had me pissing in my pants laughing. Oh man it is so fucking funny. So I stayed out a little late last night (more on this later)! It is a matter of public record that I awake now often during the week at 7:45 ayem to attend the twisting-into-pretzel classes. Or really, the failing-to-twist-into-pretzel classes for me. So if he thinks that I'm a wee bit cranky in the ayem, he can bite me. Preferably on the neck. Oh but an expedition to the outer boroughs! Hot and dusty and filled with the Polish! Long blocks, low buildings, and the East River looking strangely tempting and swimmable. I made him go the long way so that he could see the industrial mysteries of Williamsburg. I missed shopping in the Warehouse, I haven't been there in years. It took me back to poorer days. There is a giant men's suit section of 10 and 20 dollar suits, and I vividly remembering avoiding the "expensive" stuff because I couldn't afford it back then. But it takes an accomplice of merit to truly get me into fighting with elderly Dominican women over giant industrial bins filled with lice-infested clothes, in a massive filthy warehouse packed to the ceiling with the garb of the freshly dead. And if anyone could be that accomplice, it's certainly the ol' E.B.. He is just so deliriously charming, has a crow-like sense of what to snatch from the dustbin of fashion, and I only was possessed with the urge to cram my tongue down his throat once. That's a marked improvement. Though I did spy on him in the changing rooms. God I'll just say any fucking thing in this blog, huh? Anyway, my point is this: what a lovely friend to have. I know I tease him about my attraction to him (which is settling into friendship just fine), and I'm sure he finds that irksome, but honestly, well, he's pretty on the inside. How can I help it? Anyway it was delightful. I bought everything he didn't. I spent NEARLY THIRTY DOLLARS, which is next to impossible in the land of clothing at less than 3 dollars a pound. God I'm gonna look foxy in Detroit. I reluctantly parted ways in this place we call Man Hatt An. I disappeared into a lovely nap with my evil white kitty cat. I am reminded of why we keep the little fuck-asses when they curl up in your armpits and sleep with you in the afternoon. I came to just as the evening light turned green from the ailanthus tree outside my apartment. It was strangely quiet in the city and I had had a dream... about something. It was about pistachios I believe, and some sort of relaxing video art. Hawaii? Anyway, I cabbed it to the west village to see some friends. Eerily enough, the first person I ran into was the very same gentleman who had kept me up late the night before. Strange, small world. "You're looking good, sexy," he said to me tonight. What was his name? Joey? Tony? Something butch and Brooklyney. GOD he's hot. 6' 2", real tough guy with the accent and all, nice natural body, and with a big business. He had a great line of dirty talk that felt actually authentic. It wasn't rehearsed, and it truly stunned me into silence. Seeing him today was like being in a dream. I felt for sure that we'd never meet again and here we have mutual friends and see each other twice in 24 hours? Still, I didn't give him my number. I'm letting that stay in the universe's hands, you know? He and I will meet again. It was nice to get out of the house. I was looking for validation so I made sure that I wore something tight and summery. One needs social rewards when one spends every damn day fighting, cajoling, and maiming one's body in the interest of fitness and, well, yes, attractiveness. Well I guess I'm looking good. Well the next person I ran into was my yoga crush. By this time I'm kind of impressed with the world. Like, hey! Whip em all out at once! Blogstalker, the guy I most recently wanted to date; Mr. Brooklyn, the guy I slept with last night; and Yoga Boy, my secret crush. Come on down everyone! So I walked back to the East Village thinking about this, listening to Calexico, drinking vitamin water, wearing my fabulous new doorman's pants from the Mystery Warehouse. What a gorgeous evening, finally cooling down into a perfect night. And what I figured out was this: something's been blocked with all three of these situations. Though my face is pretty, it's the wrong face. Or it's at the wrong time. Or it's in the wrong frame of reference. None of that actually matters, and I'm totally good with it all. What's going on is that something's holding me back, or I'm supposed to graduate to a new level now, or something. So I arrived back at my apartment, I put on some inspirational music (Rachel's The Sea and The Bells), and called my exboyfriend. That's right ladies and germs, the three or four months of not speaking have been really great but it seems to me now that a lack of resolution is holding me back. So I just punched in that number and left a message on his answering machine. Hey, it's RJ. How ya doing? I'm calling to see how things are going. That's great. I'll be around later if you wanna call me back, and at work tomorrow, and so on and so forth. Hope you're well! Hmph. What's done is done. I'm almost completely sure that was right. So to really finish off my day I went for a nice walk in the park with Troy. We talked about Troy's stalker (who sounds to me like an easily disposed of wussass) and what we were going to do about it. We loved us some Larry, who ran about until he seemed ready to die. To think I used to hate that dog! He is so super. Then I had a little vegetarian taco and came home. What a day! I'll tell you what this day means to me: This day means that everything has meaning if you care to listen. But there was even more, and aren't you as exhausted as I am by this point? A surprise IM came from a reader as I was trying to blog. Normally I'm very wary of people, especially in "cyberspace" as they say. But I knew right away that this guy was related to it all—he was in the middle of my moment, as we say. We had this incredible conversation, about divorce, phobias, yoga, pain, oddness. I know I'm being vague but a LOT of our conversation was WAY off the record and I'm not even going there. Once again I will use the word "eerie," this time to describe our similarities. I'm looking forward to talking to him a great deal more. And it's nice to hear that blogs are being of service. It's trite but true that people share things that other people need to hear. So blog on! Cheese sandwiches, fucked up punctuation and all! I don't give a rat's ass, I just wanna hear about people's lives. Are ya happy today, baby? Did someone piss you off? Are ya worried about your parents dying? Are you gonna start carving on yourself with a rusty razor blade unless you get all that negative shit out of your head? Are you ready for a breakdown, sugar? Live it up, it's blogtastic! Okay. I have to go to bed. It's almost 2 a.m. and I've gotta try and get my legs behind my shoulders before work tomorrow. The less sleep you get the night before yoga, the more you feel like vomiting during yoga. And puking is just right on top, number one on my list of things to avoid. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/18/2001 12:51:00 PM ----- BODY:

My Psychic Drag Queen Sunday

The psychic fair was pretty spectacular for me. I'm realizing just how tuned in I am at this point when things like this happen. This white guy came in for a reading about what was going on with this book he'd written. He believed it was a great book, but he just couldn't get it published. Why? I saw a hawk on top of one of those Native American totem poles and it wasn't long before I realized that this hawk spirit had been helping him write this book, only now that it was written it was interfering with him getting it published. A little spirit guide control game, as it were. The reading was actually very indepth, vivid, and afterwards he thanked me and reached into his bag. He pulled out a copy of the manuscript and there it was, a book on Native American spirituality. On the cover was a photograph of the author surrounded by old Native photographs, and off to his left was a hawk. He was wearing a necklace of hawk feathers. If that ain't immediate validation I don't know what is. Another reading was this woman who wanted to know about her house and the possibility of moving. I saw that she was living with a woman, ah, an ex lover. Lesbian breakup syndrome. The two were still living together and still very much involved in each other's lives which had its perks, companionship and such, although her unwillingness to move on was keeping her stuck from creating any new energy and happiness in her life. I focused in on many specifics, how her ex really was still literally in the relationship with her and just because they weren't having sex didn't mean anything to this other woman. She didn't like having sex anyway. The woman's mouth dropped and she started laughing. "God, you're good." It was a great fair. That's just a couple of stories of the many. Then it was time for the drag show. I threw a few dresses, a pair of major high heeled pumps, make-up, etc in a suitcase and raced on over. I was having a hell of a time on the freeway thanks to these nuns that wouldn't get out of my way. Beep Beep!! Drag queen on a rampage!! When I got to the club I parked and walked to the store to get some water. A woman was sitting in her car in the parking lot. As I walked past she rolled down her window and said very loudly, "I'M HAVING MY VERY OWN MUSIC FESTIVAL IN HERE AND I WANT TO SHARE IT WITH THE WORLD." "Good for you!", I told her. I could tell right then and there it was going to be a very strange night. As I stood outside smoking a cigarette I watched her start her engine and drive away. For awhile it looked like nobody was showing up for the show, performers or audience. And then all of sudden everybody rolled in all at once. It was a blast. We had so much fun. I did a few songs including New Toy by Lene Lovich while jumping rope. I'm really looking forward to doing it again in July. One of my highlights of the night though was this little older woman who came up to me. Maybe she wasn't that short, but when you're on 7 inch heels everybody's small. She said she wanted me to know something. "I want you to know that you're my hero." She was quite sincere. It was a pretty amazing moment to think that I, a blonde Amazon of a drag queen, was someone's hero. I could just hear "The Wind Beneath My Wings" start to swell in the background and since I have an aversion to Bette Midler I couldn't help but start laughing. We had a nice chat though. I'm someone's hero! On the way home I tuned in to that really intensely strange music program on KPFA with Dean Suzuki. It was very dreamy, thoughtful, and just strange enough to be really interesting - hmm, kind of like me. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/17/2001 10:12:00 PM ----- BODY:

11:59

Happy Father's Day, Flip's dad! I love your dad too and I don't even know him well. I'm glad you told that story. Oh yeah and to my dad, I send some sort of good vibes of peace. Nothing too specific though. Today I was meditating and I remembered a poem I wrote to him when I was quite young, maybe 7 or 8? Yes, I was a very gay child, I know. I don't really remember how it went but there was something about him being a star and everytime I saw the stars it reminded me of him. Which is a terribly sad and remote metaphor to use in something you give to your father. Well that about sums it up don't it? Anyway I jumped the gun on father's day a few weeks back and wrote about him here. I busted out of work on Saturday evening to catch the 6:05 train. It's about 8 minutes to Penn Station from work (I can smoke a cigarette and have a block to walk left over) so I left here at about 5:50. I followed this cute little muscley number into the Chase ATM at the train station and started searching in my bag and realized I'd left my wallet at the office. I had a major brain freeze. Get on the train with just enough money to get out there? Then borrow? Go back, get wallet, and take the 7:05? None of it computed. Also it turns out I have a severe fear of being without an ATM card. So I choked down that fear and slid onto the glamorous Long Island Rail Road, nearly penniless, and immediately slipped into a deep and meaningful coma. It was as if an atomic bomb had gone off in my head and suddenly everything was gone. I remain in that state currently, nearly 31 hours later. I arrived at the beach house, made the resident lesbian couple, Lazy and Susan, a terrible awful pasta dish with olives and peppers and garlic, and then settled in for a good 10 hours sleep. Delicious. After a rainy afternoon of bridge today, followed by a tasty sunny swim in the ocean, my first of the year, and GOD I missed that, and a long contemplative walk in the woods, I decided to turn around and come home on the last boat out. Susan wanted to come with me, as she has a severe and odd phobia about travelling alone, and would have had to leave tomorrow all alone, her worst nightmare. In fact, everyone in our household has been trying to get Susan and I to hang out more, as we both have anxiety disorders and phobias. So we had a beautiful starry boat ride across to Long Island. We were the only people sitting up top of the boat, and it was one of those little boats, only 20 seats or so up top, and it was crystal clear. We'd get slapped lightly with spray and we could see miles and miles, planes on their way to Europe, was that planet Venus or Mars, watching party island recede into the night. It was just chilly enough for a sweatshirt and it smelled oceany-terrific. On the train we talked about our experiences on medications like Wellbutrin and Effexor, old breakups, our common history of being called withholding bitches, about how sexy anger could be, about all the odd lesbians we had in common on both coasts and some in between, and she told me great stories from her past. When Susan was but a mere baby dyke (she's 31 now), she left Long Island to attend school in the Bay Area. She moved into some awful giant housing commune off campus where everyone was a drama queen heroin addict. She became more and more isolated in that way that you can only be in your late teens—old enough to know better, young enough to still care too much? So she would walk about her neighborhood and one day she realized that on her block was a bizarre institution. She had never noticed it before. This institution seemed to be the answer to her problems, so she walked right in and enrolled. Hello, she said. I'd like to become a psychic, please! That is the story of how she became enrolled in the same psychic school at which you are soon to graduate, Flip. Isn't that interesting? I think I'll be spending a LOT more time with Susan. She is slated to become a VIPIML, that is, a Very Important Person In My Life, on the basis of this story. Well it's 1 a.m. Sunday night/Monday morning, and I'm here at the office, clutching my wallet and a bottle of Glaceau vitamin water ("essential," the orange/carrot mix). I missed you ATM card. I missed you, money. I know you aren't actually anything, money, and you have no meaning, but we get along so well. As a PLWCC, that is a Person Living Without Credit Cards (11 years and counting!), my debit ATM/Mastercard is truly the most symbolically and functionally important money-related thing I own. Oh debit card, let's never fight again. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/17/2001 01:11:00 PM ----- BODY:

Daddy-o

My Dad was born in 1918 in Wisconsin, the land of extra cheese. His father was deadbeat before there was the concept, vanishing when my Dad was six years old. He never saw the man again. His mother, a Welsh Canadian alcoholic waitress at a local diner, raised him and his younger brother single-handedly. Once they were old enough, the boys started working to help Nanny make ends meet. There was big money to be made on one work trip North but Nanny refused. She would not allow them to go. My father, being a stubborn man, took his younger brother with him and they went anyway. During the trip his younger brother came down with polio and died. Nanny never forgave him for that. He never finished high school, knocked my mother up, was in and out of trouble. He really wasn't supposed to amount to anything and then he was drafted into the Air Force. One night in Alaska my Dad was to fly one of the bomber planes on a routine mission. His squad was set to go when my father got this horrible feeling that he should not get on that plane. He refused to go and landed himself in trouble. That night all five planes went down killing all the remainder of his squad. The experience changed him. From that day on life took a surprising turn. He married my mother and after some time in Texas and Alaska they eventually settled in the Pacific Northwest where three more sons were born including me. He worked diligently and was recognized and hired by one of the countries largest shipyards. His career there spanned more than twenty years. The man with no formal education has been repeatedly honored, Time Magazine and others, as one of the most influential men in his field nationally. Behind the success though is a man who sacrificed much of his life for his family. When he wasn't working he had two primary loves: jamming with his friends in a country music band and working on his silver Chevy van with the zebra print interior. He's quite the guy. While things have been relatively good between us, they were never entirely right either. That is, until recently. A little over a year ago my Father was visiting San Francisco on business. Though he's retired he's still very much in demand as a consultant. I met him in the City for dinner and dessert. Nice visit, talked about cars, the weather, work, the usual non-loaded benign pleasantry conversational agenda. Later, back at his hotel though, he said he had something he wanted to tell me. It looked very serious and eventually he was able to spit it out. "Son, I want you to know that I know I short changed you your entire life and I want you to know I'm sorry." Tears began to stream down my face hearing those words. Tears began to stream down his face as well. Happy Fathers Day Daddy-o. I'm glad you're my Dad. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/17/2001 02:10:00 AM ----- BODY:

Weekend Update

East Coast RJ is out at the beach on Fire Island this weekend. Here in the Bay Area the heat continues. I've been too busy with a psychic fair and a drag show sunday night to get out and enjoy it much. How do you say, d'hectic? I'm digging my haircut. Everybody says I look like a Marine. Chinese lady at corner grocery says "You like Marine now". Well, I could certainly like a Marine. I think I'll fix myself a cheese sandwich before bed. Maybe I'll even have a toasted cheese sandwich. Yeah, that sound's good. With a bowl of Campbells tomato soup. Every now and then it's good to bring back those little comforts from long ago, particularly at a time when you feel you need a little solace. We'll miss you Steve. For those of you needing something fresh, something now, something hot, then blast yourselves over to planet kiki, link courtesy of encorswish. Bon Voyage. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/15/2001 12:20:00 AM ----- BODY:

Who is that man hiding behind a Twister Spinner Board!?! Why its none other than That Darn RICHARD at LIVING PROOF, Our Unanimous Foxy First Place Winner!!!!! This brings our big 12500 Naked Twister Contest to a close and Richard baby, You're the Best - Congratulations!!! Now let's have Don Pardo tell you about your Fabulous Prizes!!!

That's right Richard, you've won the East Coast/West Coast 12500 Naked Twister Prize Package of a lifetime! First off you will be taking your rightful place in the illustrious Winners Circle where you will recieve not only the East Coast/West Coast Soundtrack 1.0 to make all your time online East/West time! You'll also receive the Special Summer Party Mix for your Naked Twister listening pleasure created by DJ Ron himself. What else? Why it's a brand new copy of Milton Bradley's Twister!! That's right Richard, it will be shipped off right to your door with our thanks for being on our show. And let's not forget that Twister ties you up in a knot and you can do that NAKED with Flip City himself! A prize package worth 124 Million Dollars!! RJ and Flip would like to again thank Ron at Leather Egg and Brian at Outage for being our special guest celebrity judges. Thanks to everyone who played. Back to you Flip!

Thanks Don, Thanks Richard, and thank all of you out there for watching. Who Loves Ya Baby? East Coast/West Coast Does! Tell Your Friends! Thanks one and all for tuning us in and turning us on! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/14/2001 05:12:00 PM ----- BODY:

punk fucking rock

Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Before I get going I just want to point out that I'm feeling saucy and carefree. I really smell too. It's hot as a crotch in Manhattan tonight and I've simply run out of deodorant. There was a little while there that I was using a tweezers to scoop out the remaining bits of Right Guard out of the stick but I had to give up on that because who really cares anyway? Oh, noone's going to like me if I sweat. Boo fucking hoo. I was so inspired by your rash haircut, Flip, that I had to join in the party. I was starting to look like Shaggy. I ducked out of work early to go visit my hairdresser at the Chelsea Hotel. Mmm, talk about haunted. The hair salon is tucked in a corner apartment of the hotel. It's very very, you know? Lots of Brazillian homosexuals and tattooed muscle boys sweeping up and Japanese girls getting modified mohawks. My hairdress, Stella, the 20-year-old New Jersey girl, tortured me mercilessly for an hour. She very nearly convinced me into a dye job which would give the illusion of a long since grown out bleach job, if you know what I mean. What could be more decadent than a haircut designed to look like a failed haircut? Still I had to turn her down on that one. I've got a lot of balls but there's some things I'm just not ready for. Mesh speedos and the return of the platform boot, for instance. Especially together. So she tore me up good and I have the haircut of an alien. I'm not posting any pictures because, well, that would be a dead giveaway to my Bruce Wayne identity. And surely y'all can wait a while longer for that, no? So in essence, I have the incredibly expensive (not that she charges me, because she loves me), high class version of the haircut I gave myself for free in 1984, when I was 13 years old. That was the summer, when I had moved to Chicago from California, I had just learned the important lesson that being an outcast was cool. So I grew out a mohawk and shaved four racing stripes up the back of my head—with a safety razor. Mmmm, messy. I remember going downtown with a Colt 40 ouncer to hang out with the skaters, and a girl flew by in a green K car and screamed, "I like your stripes!" It was just like the opposite of Heathers. The worse you looked and the more often you wore bathrobes with combat boots to high school, the more respect you got. Ahh, the early mid-late 80s. What a time! But I think those late new wave days should be kept around. After all, isn't this blog punk rock? And isn't my hair pretty damn punk? (I'll answer for you, it certainly is). And isn't being a pole-smoking homo punk enough? I rather think it is. On my way back from the ever-inspiring Chelsea Hotel, I ran into a handsome young boy with a scar on his forehead. Now, I've been looking for a man with a scar on his face. Not just any man—there was a gentleman in particular who left quite an impression on me about three weeks ago. I don't know what city he lives in, I don't know his name, but I'll never forget his body and the incredible sexual chemistry we had. We had delirious, hysterical, sandy sex on the beach. I was so stunned by the whole experience I literally couldn't hear him when he told me his name. And I was too flummoxed to follow through with giving out phone numbers. But I realized if I ever ran into him again, I would immediately recognize the strange horizontal scar just above his eyebrows. So tonight, as I walk down the street, back towards the office, this handsome boy greets me as if he knew me. Is it him? I thought. Is it him? Is it him? Ha ha ha! But it wasn't. This fellow had an accent and was probably 22 or 23, and you know generally I like them old, err, older. "Vat are you up to?" he asked me. "Ve should rilly have lunch sometime." Hmmm, lunch. I don't really have lunch. And then I thought, who the fuck are you? Where could I possibly know you from? I have no idea. He blushed a little when I took off my sunglasses and gave him the once over twice. I feel for the kids who missed out on the late late mid-80s. There wasn't enough repression in the 90s to make anything dirty and spicy. The younger generation has no sense of filth and outrageousness. Come by my office sometime, I told him. We'll get it together. And of course he's young, and doesn't have the sense to introduce himself properly, typical. I gave him my card. He certainly was attractive. But I'm putting him out of my mind. I have other mysteries to explore this evening. After all, I'm 167 pounds of hardcore fun. Somewhere out there tonight there's another guy with a haircut from another era, waiting for me. Maybe he's in Turkmenistan, but maybe he's actually right here in my backyard. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/14/2001 03:03:00 AM ----- BODY:

Mysterious Ways

When I last lived in San Francisco I would often saunter up the hill a few blocks from my studio apartment on Sutter to walk the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral. I found it to be very meditative. There's something intriguing about walking medieval labyrinths in a modern world. Millenial life can, at times, be so chock full of stress that it's important for us to find ways to turn off the light, take a deep breath, and listen to the voice of Enigma, literally or metaphorically. There are many ways to cut to the chase and labyrinth walking is an interesting one. Maybe there's a labyrinth near you? Even if there isn't, its nice to know there's one right at your fingertips.

Labyrinths, strange ancient mystical circles, there really is evidence that a lot more is going on in the world than meets the eye. I went out tonight and saw a few old friends and made a few new ones. We were all hanging out together yakking, nibbling on biscotti, strawberries, green seedless grapes, sipping mineral water and such. One of the guys asked what my plans were for the summer. I told him of my upcoming luxurious holiday week in one of America's most exotic getaway vacation hotspots: Detroit. Turns out he just moved here from Detroit two weeks ago. He gave me the inside scoop on the bars and such, and as the evening progressed I got the impression he wanted to give me the inside scoop on his personal sexual athleticism. Somehow each time he started steering the conversation in that direction, I stepped off the path. I think he was making me a little nervous. Handsome. Brazillian. New in town. When the evening ended I managed to say, "you know how to reach me at work, right?" He smiled and stated he knew how to get ahold of my digits. All day long I've had the sense that something really good is coming. I don't think it was him. I suppose it could be the announcement of our 12500 Twister Contest winner (maybe Today if we get it together), but that's not quite right either. It's just a feeling that something magical is in the works. Part of it might just be the fantastic weather were having. Whatever it is, the whole thing has me feeling rather giddy with delightful anticipation. Nevertheless, I know I do need to keep my eyes and ears on the road. Evil still lurks in the world - and it's harder to pinpoint these days now that it's all gotten so gosh darn subtle and sophisticated.

The remainder of my day today was all about work. I had one staff position open, another became vacant last week when the new guy quit without notice, another member of my staff is absent for an undetermined time period dealing with a death in his family, and Hippie Chick took off for a week today due to an emergency in her family. What is going on? I warned the rest of my staff to be careful. I already have so much on my plate I'd like a side order Mam. I bet you've been working as hard as I have. You know what we need, we need a vacation and we'll have one soon enough. Until then, don't you think you deserve to take a little break amidst the rush? I think you do. Time for me to head to bed. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/13/2001 02:08:00 AM ----- BODY:

The 12500 Nude Twister contest moves toward its conclusion as we present four more finalists of the top 12.5 entries. The judges: RJ, Ron, Brian and myself spent hours gruelling over this decision making process and we again applaud them for their help. Previous finalists have already been posted. We now continue with Finalists 5 through 2. Parental discretion is advised.

5

Our temptress Teresa from Nashville, Tennessee

4

The very edible Eddie V., San Diego, CA

3

It's delicious, it's delectable, it's DLevy!

2

Paul's a "New York City kind of guy" Coming soon: Our Big Winner! The one whose getting it all! The incredible honor of playing naked twister with RJ or myself, their very own copy of Milton Bradley's Twister game, the East Coast/West Coast Soundtrack 1.0, Ron @ Leatheregg's Special Summer Party Mix, AND their rightful place in our very illustrious Winner's Circle. You're all winners in our book babe, whether your photo was selected or not. We adore you. We're building a shrine to you. Thank you to todays four finalists and stay tuned. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/13/2001 01:56:00 AM ----- BODY:

Buzzed

There was nothing anyone could have done to stop me. I raced out the door at 5:00 and ran on over to a barber shop I had never been to. Once inside I noticed the painting of a golfer, playboy magazines neatly arranged on a coffee table. "How you want it," he sort of growled at me. He was a Paul Bunyon kind of a guy. "I need a change. Uhm, shorter. I want it short." He looked at me closer. "Like a 2 blade? almost whitewalls?" There was a small portable TV in the corner and a race car was spinning out on the track. "I just want it off." He flashed me a grin that said, "You're a man now Billy" and he went to work, manhandling my head more than any barber I'd ever went to before. A customer came in and the two of them participated in male bonding rituals, the usual "bout time you got here, fuck you ya lazy bum" kind of stuff. My hair landed in my lap in large clumps. When he was finished it was as if he had single handedly restored the world to normal. Hippie Chick and I are obsessed with Green Squall, a flavor of Powerade. Everyday, around 3:00, we make our walk to the bagel stop to fetch ourselves a a couple bottles of ice cold delicious Green Squall. Our little store has started carrying two rows worth in their cooler just to keep the two of us happy. Most of my listening pleasure today brought back Richard Buckner's The Hill. Buckner takes Edgar Lee Master's 1915 classic book of poems, the Spoon River Anthology, and puts the fictional stories of Spoon River's residents all to music. The 18 stories Buckner has chosen to share are backed up with the genius of Joey Burns and John Convertino of Calexico and Giant Sand. With Richard's wavery and rough voice you can easily imagine the long deceased characters finally telling their stories to music. Bush continued his plans to destroy planet earth one way or another today, overturning the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty to build a missle defense shield for the United States. “The ABM treaty is a relic of the past,” Bush said. He then moved right along to reject the Kyoto treaty on global warming, pissing off most of Europe in the process. The Kyoto treaty calls for industrialized countries to take the lead in reducing emissions. Another day, another bull in a china shop. Thank the Good Lord someone has a vision for America we can get behind. It's hard to believe you and I will be in Detroit soon, just two weeks from today. I can't wait to see you. We're gonna have SO much fun terrorizing the Motor City. I'm also thinking about going up to Lake Shasta in July for a few days with alot of the guys from psychic school. Five days of it, just me and a platoon of straight men alone in the wildnerness. Most of them really want me to come and I'm thinking about roaming the lake in a houseboat, waterskiing, pulling my sleeping bag up on the roof and just chillin and sleeping under the stars. And I really want to come out to Fire Island this summer before the season ends. All three of these upcoming adventures excite me. You never know, I might even find a duck. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/12/2001 09:16:00 PM ----- BODY:

Wrap it up!

I'm listening to an excellent CD sent to me by a dear dear special friend in the Bay Area. Thanks for the CDs, Flip! I love the Calexico, and the best of 2000 is totally rocking. Actually, it's not rocking, it's beautifully mellow. I'm going to put it on again right after this listen. It's perfect music for a night like tonight. It's dark and almost hot. I'm sitting in my dining room wearing shorts and having a big, delicious, cold glass of water. The restaurant back behind my apartment courtyard is sending up the sounds of laughter and silverware, and it's not annoying me tonight. It sounds like summer. And I love summer. I had a beautiful morning walk up through the West Village to Chelsea after an early yoga class. I bought a plastic container of a big fruit salad and ate it walking up the Avenue, with my hands. While smoking. With Sheila E. singing "The Glamorous Life" in my head. Speaking of CDs, I owe a couple of our lovely readers CDs: it's coming, frankie, it's coming, tinnie, and you others, I adore you all. And also, I wanted to say, as I went post by post by post through EVERY page of our archives, making sure there was nothing in them I wouldn't want my mother to read (okay, there are LOTS of things I wouldn't want my mother to read in this blog still, and isn't that the point really, but she's a tough cookie and she's heard me say some pretty damn horrible things), and ANYway this sentence has now gone on too long so I will start a new one. My point was that I saw that I had left some unfinished business in my blog, and I didn't want to leave anything or anyone hanging. So, in no particular order, here is some resolution:

No, I have not yet slept with the mystery bachelor from my bachelor party but I rather think I still want to. My bizarre weight-loss inducing stomach illness was undiagnosed and I am skinny and uncaring. And eating again, for the most part. I owe a couple of contest winners a good time. More will be revealed, nothing ever falls off my radar. Good things come to/on blog readers who wait. My HIV test came back negative. It was a horrible waiting period this time, it made me really crazy. Honestly, I couldn't even wrap my mind around it to blog about it. Everything stopped making sense for a time. I am currently not dating anyone at all. I hereby open myself to the universe and all its infinite possibilites. I do your bidding, Universe!

-------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/12/2001 09:01:00 PM ----- BODY:

This change is forever

Today of course reminded me of the last time I was in Oklahoma City. The Scribbler and his stupid then-boytoy and I were passing through, on our way down from Kansas to, well, to nowhere, but a nowhere that would take us through Los Angeles. We were driving a rusty 15-year-old Jeep Cherokee named Shirley that was not to survive the trip, but that's a story for another time as the incident occurred about 10,000 miles later in the road trip. There wasn't much in Oklahoma City, except of course the Memorial. I was really filled with trepidation. The pictures don't really do it justice, though these come pretty close. My experience there was really odd. The Christian theology was really alien to me. Christianity has a logic all its own, with no reference to real logic of course, so I felt like I couldn't understand any of it except that people needed some system to sort through for meaning. I can respect that. Christians, or at least the many brands of them I saw there, needed a God and Satan duality to deal with the bombing, "This isn't God's will." I couldn't relate to that at all. Either God is by definition God, all knowing and all powerful, or s/he just isn't. So which is it? Or can we ignore God's will? I guess we can. I know I've thought, ahh, this is The Plan, and then I think, well, fuck that! This is the part where I stop thinking about it because I'm confused. I don't trouble God with who/what God is. That's why we get along so well, and why my spiritual life operates so smoothly. There was a sign at the corner of the Memorial. It announced the death toll in adults, children, and fetuses. I'd never seen anything like that before. I was simultaneously shocked, saddened, freaked out, and surprised. So I wandered along the shattered sidewalk, looking at every personal item pinned to the fence—and it was an endless array of personal notes, teddy bears, license plates, keychains, flowers, things loaded with meaning, and things so private they were only for the memorialized, all tied into that ugly chain link fence and looking beyond at The Place. It was hard to wrap my mind around just what it was, another morning in another ugly federal building, people happy, sad, distracted. Even though I felt like I was so far away from it, that obviously couldn't have been true. It was so personal and so real that I cried, embarrassedly and kind of secretly, but still. It was horrible. It was really really dreadful to see. Now that's all settled right? The Mad Bomber is dead, and doesn't that make it all better? Everyone believed what he or she wanted to believe. All sorts of meaning was attached to the state-sponsored execution. People made whatever meaning of it they could—abstract, political, spiritual—they put whatever it all meant on a balance beam and for someone out there, I'm sure it clearly came up level. People are pretty damn lucky when any of this can make sense. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/12/2001 01:27:00 AM ----- BODY:

American Death

When I arrived at the office this morning I fetched a coffee and checked my messages. The first came from a member of my staff. There had been a death in the family. He had to leave town. My day of death had begun. Minutes later a co-worker came in to tell me that bright spirited little boy we loved so much died. His father had taken him to a friends house. He was in the habit of leaving him unattended. The boy drowned when he fell in the swimming pool. That one actually sent me into a tailspin for a bit. My feelings surprised me. Death has, in essence, become such a regular fixture in my life that it pulled a Heather Locklear: special guest star, every week. When you lived through the early nineties in San Francisco, when everyone around was dropping like flies, one inevitably becomes, well, desensitized on the subject, more or less. Death has been as much a part of my landscape as it has for my 82 year old mother. Its just something that happens, like paying bills, only worse. I don't think we're taught how to deal with death effectively in America.

When I was a child Aunt Jenny lived up the street. She was old and frail and she loved me more than anyone on the planet. She was a shelter of sanity in a troubled storm. When she died nobody told me she had passed away. Suddenly, I couldn't go up the street anymore. A few days later our house was filled with people wearing black. Sad people. American death culture is strange and I need to say that this whole Timothy McVeigh thing even has me disturbed. After 28 years the good ole US of A carries out its first federal execution. Meanwhile a federal judge and the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals refused to delay the execution despite thousands of pages of previously undisclosed evidence in the case. Something just doesn't seem right here. Someone loves the smell of napalm in the morning just a little too much. Its difficult for me to have clear perspective on the death penalty in a country that eats death for breakfast. I look for my moral fiber globally in the 108 countries who oppose it, governments critical of America's policy on human rights. I mean why are we cocktailing with the other great humanitarians like Iran, Iraq and China on this subject. There are so many things fundmentally wrong here. Meanwhile, Attorney General Ashcroft literally made my mouth drop when he said that black and Hispanic defendants are less likely to be subjected to the death penalty than white defendants, saying that the statement was an “insult to the intelligence of the American people.” I suppose it's good Bush is surrounding himself with bulbs as dim as he is. It's all documented evidence.

While some are protesting to keep people alive, others fight for their right to die gracefully, while others are out to oppose them. American death circus. We're fascinated by it. It's in the air we breathe, the water that we drink. McVeigh's going to die and PETA has concerns about his fuckin diet. Perhaps they were just cashing in on the fact that a good ole fashion lynching apparently sells. I read he spent his final hours eating ice cream.

Even though were inundated with death daily, the truth is I rarely think about my own. I think my biggest fear is nobody would notice, nobody would care, nobody would remember. My life would read like an ice cube on hot asphalt. Sure, death's coming, eventually. I have the same terminal illness as everyone else: Life. I took a Death and Dying class once, years ago. The professor made us plan our own funerals, write out our own wills. It was all very moving, even though I can't remember a thing about any of it now. I don't want to be buried underground. I don't know why they call cemetaries things like "Serenity Acres" and such. Left to the worms. Seems to me there's little peace one way or another.

I do know about the after life though. Tonight at psychic school I was giving a healing to a young girl whose best friend passed away a couple days ago and I could see her friend clearly was nearby. Maybe John Edward and I just have the inside scoop, and I find that rather freeing. Sure its an ending, but it's also a beginning. The death threat I received the other night has had me thinking. What if he had been waiting for me outside with a gun like he promised? What if my number had been called? As I look around my luxurious life I have to ask myself, is this the fulfillment of a fantasy hoped for? Somehow, I thought it would all be different somehow, didn't you? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/10/2001 02:56:00 PM ----- BODY:

It's time for more finalists in our 12500 Nude Twister Explosion which brings to mind: what was our judging criteria anyway? Our judges: RJ, myself, Ron, and Brian know what we like when we see it. Our basis was: were we turned on? did we laugh? were we shocked? And then we gave credit emphasis on effort, time, creativity, and overall artististic expression. They were very difficult decisions to make. In honoring our 12,500 site visitors we're posting the top 12 and a half entries and today we continue with 6 through 9. Parental discretion is advised.

9

Our beloved ballsy Bill at Mermaniac.

8

The dazzling talents of Miss Violet, Las Vegas

7

The mysterious Stephen at The Misc Minutiae

6

He called himself "Master Locke" from an indeterminate region on the Eastern seaboard. We figured out who you are though. Don't sweat it. Our lips are sealed. Uhm, ouch! Coming up next time: 5, 4, 3 and 2 - four entries we truly loved. Later this week: the one whose getting it all: the honor of playing naked twister with RJ or myself, Milton Bradley's Twister game, the East West Soundtrack 1.0, Ron @ Leatheregg's Special Summer Party Mix, and their rightful place in our very illustrious Winner's Circle. Though only one can walk away with the honors, everybodys a winner at East Coast/West Coast, whether your photo was selected or not. Thank you all. A very special thanks to todays four finalists. Stay tuned, or just keep on reading. It was, after all, an interesting weekend. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/10/2001 12:16:00 AM ----- BODY:

I'm a Reasonable Man, Get Off My Case

Trying to find the joy in the benign. Trying to find the beauty in the plastic bag. Trying to find a faucet to the innocence within, to tap a source where the water flows clean and clear and is suitable for not only drinking, but for swimming and submerging. You dive too quickly and little tiny bubbles of air float up your nose, causing you to rise to the surface gasping for breath. Me thinks we must return from a world of vice and pain slowly. Sometimes in leading extraordinary lives we are validated for our madness. Sometimes we need someone else to mirror our reflections back to us for personal viewing in order to gain perspective not necessary possible even through countless hours of solo navel gazing. RJ mentiones he can see himself in Donna, in Laura. I suppose I see myself more these days in the life of the Log Lady.

It was Margaret Lanterman who said, "Shut your eyes and you'll burst into flames". I spent hours today meditating at psychic school. I looked into the lives of others clairvoyantly and saw things I didn't care to see, sometimes frightening horrifying things. A woman on the verge of an epiphany? a complete nervous breakdown? The end result was hers for the choosing as she continues navigating the remnants of her past lives. Then came a young girl entrenched in healing agreements with her family so intense they threatened to suffocate the very light of the flame we call her spirit. Sometimes the most helpful thing we can do for someone is to simply let them go. I don't carry a log with me. My log doesn't tell me things. Fictional characters from television seldom reflect the nature of my everyday living. It's all so exciting on the other side of the screen. So much murder and sex and random situation comedy. There are no dirty dishes, no laundry in need of washing. All of this is edited for entertainment purposes. I, however, have clothes to clean. There is a new backyard deck to help the House Mate build. There is pepperoni pizza and non-alcoholic beer to consume, episodes of the Scientific American to watch on PBS in my unintentional quest to discover how animals think, how steel drums are made, how radio telescopes are being utilized in a search for signs of extraterrestrial intelligent life in the universe. So much to learn. I feel enriched, even if only by the fact there was nothing else on. Perhaps I should just validate my education, though I have difficulty seeing it's significance. Will any of this ever prove beneficial in mindless chit chat at social gatherings or mundane suburban neighborhood block parties. I've lived my entire life, up until a year ago, entrenched within a city and I always believed the real terrors of the world existed out there in the small towns like Twin Peaks and in American suburban bedroom communities, not down on the streets of the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin is rather predictable. The Tranny Hookers have routine. People where I live now are liable to do just about anything to save themselves from the sheer utter boredom of it all. It's enough to make you lock your doors at night.

I'm listening to Amnesiac and feeling alternatingly annoyed and inspired. My three day weekend seems to be landing in the street like a pancake used as a frisbee. It feels out of context, and shouldn't someone have eaten that already? There wasn't any beach. There wasn't any coastal sun to make the trip down there worth the price of gas. Suburbia has a tendency to sucker us into it's mind numbing lifeless context for extended periods in favor of saving precious petrol and avoiding the need to look for parking. Why go anywhere else when we can use our very own restroom, clean and tidy, we know only the right people have been there previously and there's always toilet paper, usually. Stay at home. Be Amused. Be constructive. Think of something productive to do. There must be something productive to do.

I visited friends in Marin last night. We drank decaffienated coffee and feasted on Lucky Charms cereal as they blathered about all the important news. "Did you hear about Tom Cruise posing for a gay magazine in his early years?" "Did you hear about Nicolas Cage and Lisa Marie Presley getting hitched?" "Did you hear about Phyllis Diller's accident?" I didn't even know she was still alive. God Bless Phyllis Diller.

I pondered whether your marshmallow favorite in this sugar and vitamin supercharged breakfast cereal was really able to predict ones sex life. My fondness for green clovers and yellow moons were in full evidence later, however, when I paid a visit to the East Bay sex club on my way home. The place was full of lifeless zomebies walking around in circles looking for something that didn't exist. I took care of what I needed to accomplish though. All seemed right with the world until I returned to my locker to find a very poorly written death threat.

Who wrote this and how did they know this was my locker? Nothing unusual happened. Could it be someone simply had the wrong address? Perhaps we'll never know for sure. There was an Asian guy stalking me earlier that evening who was actually interfering in my trivial pursuits. After putting up with this for an extended period I decided to turn the tables and started stalking him for a minute or two. It seems it made him uncomfortable as well, go figure. Maybe he's the one who wants me dead. Sometimes we can push someone, even just a tiny bit, and they'll fall much farther than expected. We're not often aware how close people can be to the edge. Nobody expected it of Laura Palmer. Nobody expected it of either of us. We've been to hell and back and are living to tell the tale. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/09/2001 11:02:00 AM ----- BODY:

Let's Rock

DONNA Do you think that if you were falling in space you would slow down after a while or go faster and faster? LAURA Faster and faster. For a long time you wouldn't feel anything. Then you would burst into fire... forever. Fire Walk With Me

Last night I came home and I puttered about. Then I decided to embrace the idiot box, and just as I turned it on, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me was just starting. So of course I just got in bed, smoked a pack of cigarettes, and watched it all the way through. Poor Sheryl Lee should have been nominated for an Oscar. That girl is a freak. I lost track of how many times she had to cry in that movie. Do you remember when we went to see it in the theater? Picture it: San Francisco, 1992. My boss' funeral was that morning. So I went to the memorial service, held at the medical clinic office we worked at, and everyone talked about Danny and what a great guy he was. Everyone was surprised that he was dead. I wasn't. They all didn't think the AIDS would get him. He was a mess for the last 6 months. Skinny, tiny, exhausted. So everyone was a little stunned at the funeral. I think they didn't know a lot of dead people. We laughed a lot at the service. I knew him pretty well but I didn't know him that well, you know what I mean? I felt like an imposter. But of course I wasn't an imposter; I worked for him, we were friends. It's a prime case of being emotionally checked out. So what I remember is that you picked me up at the funeral, and we walked down Haight Street and then took the bus all the way up Divisadero? It was the same theater that we saw Showgirls at, eerily enough, years later, on its last day of theatrical release. Well between the movie and the funeral, whoof, what a day. I think I must have gone home and gone to bed. Well that's certainly what I would have done now. Hmm, a funeral in the morning and an incredibly fucked up 2 1/2 hour movie about incest and possession? Let's call it a day. But I was young and hearty and full of vigor. Probably we went out dancing. I was always such a Donna. Maybe I still am a Donna in some ways. I've always got some Laura Palmer in my life, hellbent on self-destruction, trying to get me to go to the Roadhouse and have sex with 250-pound French Canadians for 50 bucks and packet of coke. There's a good way and a bad way to be a Donna, which is what 2001 has been all about for me, becoming a helpful Donna, not an entangled Donna. I mean, I feel bad for Laura. It's not her fault that her dad is a superfreak. I suppose becoming a prom queen prostitute wasn't a great choice, but she didn't know any better. With friends like Ronette Pulaski and her strange mullet, what else could you do? Poor Laura. So last night, after all that horrible sexual degradation, murder, and psychic mystery, I decided to take out a personal ad on a sex site on the internet, advertising for fuckbuddies. Now my cruising-devoted email box is filling up with pictures of strange men wanting to sample my wares. That makes me feel more like Laura than like Donna. But Donna had changed. Her best friend was murdered. Donna learned all about the world of vice and pain. You can't help but be altered by that, forever. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/08/2001 05:05:00 AM ----- BODY:

When the 12500 Naked Twister contest was designed we knew a few of you out there had the balls or ovaries to enter, but RJ and I had no idea so many of you would throw caution to the wind, along with a few articles of clothing, and send us your skin shots. We'd like to thank Ron and Brian for helping us out as special guest celebrity judges. I don't think RJ and I could have handled it on our own. To honor our 12,500 visitors to East Coast/West Coast we've decided to post the top 12 and a half entries. Over the next several days we'll work our way up to one very special winner who will not only have the honor of playing naked twister with RJ or myself, they'll also receive Milton Bradley's Twister game, the East West Soundtrack 1.0, Leatheregg's Special Summer Party Mix, and their rightful place in our illustrious Winner's Circle. Though only one can walk away with the honors, you're all winners in our book baby, whether or not your photo is even. We'd love to display them all, but it would be impossible. Without any further ado, let's kick off our show as we bring you our best 12 and a half contest entries.

12.5

Half a delicious pecfest from Dennis, San Francisco

12

This two tone entry from our fan Fredo

11

We're all in love with Andre. Aren't you? Upstate, NY

10

You can catch "the buzz" on this twister at matteecentral.com. That's all the show and tell for today boys and girls. There's more to come so stay tuned as the East Coast/West Coast 12500 Nude Twister Extravaganza continues! A very special thanks goes out to todays four special finalists. Bravo! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/08/2001 04:24:00 AM ----- BODY:

Calexico and Other Early Delights

Contest distractions have now been alleviated and the freedom to journal has returned. Last notice I was racing out the door to motor into the City to catch Calexico at Bimbos 365 Club in North Beach, San Francisco's home of Italian flavor and strippers with a very queer history. After signing off the computer I received the disappointing news that Miss Cayenne would not be accompanying me and I'd be flying solo. I threw on something desperado to wear and soon I was over the Bay Bridge, tearing through the financial district, waving a hello to Chinatown and arriving at my destination. The evening started well with excellent parking karma.

It only took a few minutes to sell my extra ticket to a fellow in need. I was inside the illustrious nightspot, the renowned home of the girl in the fishbowl. Bimbos still maintains its glory filled days of yesteryear with the ambience of a very swinging bachelor pad. You might expect to hear Herb Alpert, but instead the Kingsbury Manx, a band from Chapel Hill, took the stage and opened the show. I purchased the manx cd several months ago as a result of reviews like this one, only to immediately sell it after only one listen. I remember thinking I should have known better than to purchase a disc by a band named after a friggin cat. I have to tell you that seeing them perform live though actually put me in search of distractions to keep myself from plunging razor sharp daggers in my ears. Thank the good Lord that there were cigarettes to be smoked and spectators to gawk at. Outside in California's smoking section there were crazy French tourists all dressed in the latest French gangsta wear to give directions to. Back inside there was a souvenir stand to peruse featuring Calexico cds, t-shirts, stickers, and Taqueria calendars. I purchased what I had been longing for, the Aerocalexico limited edition 2001 tour cd. I went to the bar to look for the girl in the fishbowl. I didn't see her. Hello? Mermaid Lady? Anybody home? I ordered a Buckler and stood admiring the other hipsters in Western wear.

Once Calexico was on stage I was able to surpass the feeling that I was all alone in a crowd of several hundred. The music washed over me like a tumbleweed. I could smell the spaghetti westerns in the air. For those of you who do not know the lush tones of Calexico, in most simple terms they might remind you of a more spicy and complex "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak. Joey Burns and John Convertino and company dazzled, amazing me that so much sound could come from 6 musicians. The entire set was most mexcellent. During their encore Tucson "legend" Al Perry (who now lives in SF) came up and did a couple of songs with the band. The night as a whole was a full on delicious tasty treat. I giggled with glee on my way home.

This week has been hectic at the office which compounded on Tuesday when the new guy decided his position really wasn't working for him and he needed to find himself, quitting without even giving notice. "No, I love it here, you're great, everybody's great, it's just not me, I need to find where I belong." Couldn't he have found himself in two weeks like a normal person? I have two full time positions to fill now. My many workaholic hours in recent days have wound down now though, resulting in my telling the gang I'm taking a three day weekend. I don't have to be back til Monday morning and with a little luck in the weather I'll get to the beach tomorrow, throwing myself naked upon the sand and in the surf. Between work, psychic school and the 12500 Twister contest there hasn't been a great deal of time for much else.

-------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/07/2001 11:50:00 AM ----- BODY:

The Weaker Argument Defeats the Stronger

Good God. I'm up to my ears in delicious insanity! A bazillion thanks to everyone who submitted themselves to our loving care. You'll be seeing yourselves in cyber-glory in the very near future. Isn't exposure creamy? Anyway, we've been adjudicating on our respective coasts for actually several hours. We take these matters very seriously. We should have things in hand and some totally tasty things online tomorrow morning. I can hardly wait! But back to me. What about ME you ask? The last you heard from me I was being rather abstract talking about my feeeeeeelings, seeing Kiki and Herb, and talking a lot about detachment and attachment. This last weekend I was supposed to go out to the beach, but I just couldn't face the commute. I mean, head out Sunday afternoon and come back Monday night? No thanks. So I stayed in NYC, and I thought, what now, little man? Here I am in the big city, with no plans and no strings attached. Well, I did my laundry. I cleaned up around the house. I considered buying that extension cord, you know, the one that would mean I didn't have to unplug my alarm clock and my TV every time I listened to the stereo? But I thought, nah. It's not such a big deal. I went a whole week without the TV and didn't even miss it. I went for a nice walk around the East Village with a friend, too. I really wanted some kind of sex over the weekend, and despite taking out personal ads on the internet advertising for a fuckbuddy or an affair or a summer fling or whatever comes my way, and also trying to really put that out there with possibly interested parties, well, that kind of situation really hasn't come to pass yet. God that sounds abstract. What I was TRYING to say was that I'm still interested in practicing how to have sex with people I talk to on a very personal level. I'm working on being a grown-up, communicating adult. But I guess it's not time for that right now. Cool. Whatever, world. And what a thing to strive for! When I put that down on paper, it sounds really dry and boring. But adventures in intimacy are the biggest adventures of all, as far as I'm concerned. What could be trippier than two people, alone together, breathing the same air? Isn't that the most threatening and pleasing thing on earth? So I did what any sensible person would do. On Sunday night, as the day came to an end, I settled for junk food sex, at my local sex club. In the theater section they were playing Girl, Interrupted. Now I wasn't the biggest fan of the book, it was a little dry for me, but I have to confess I thoroughly enjoyed the movie (beyond its heavy-handed hoo-ha every once in a while). I took a little time out at the sex club after it was over to think about what social roles and norms had done to me, how they might have fucked me up like they did little Susannah, back when I was a crazed teen myself. And I thought about stuff like, how wrapped up am I in masculinity and what it means? What received ideas dictate how I act, how I have relationships, how I have sex? I didn't get very far in this because I was getting seriously cruised by some kind of fatherly yet friendly (ooo, my therapist would enjoy that phrase, "fatherly yet friendly") Puerto Rican guy. So we had sex. It wasn't "nourishing" as my older lesbian friends would say, but it was fun, and it did hit the spot for a while. Literally! Insert Carol Channing laugh here. People do anything because they want to be happy. I think I smoke because I want to be happy. I just don't fully entirely get it that the smoking hasn't ever made me happy for more than 5 seconds. What makes me happy is being happy. All mushheadedness aside, knowing that 6-on-a-scale-of-10 anonymous sex isn't going to make me happy actually frees me up to enjoy the situation itself. I know better than to look for validation and approval there. I guess this week has been all about self-acceptance. Warts (literally sometimes) and all. I think I've been involved in so much action action action: losing all this weight, taking care of my body, spending more time meditating, being efficient and responsible, trying to be of service: I'm actually doing the things I'm "supposed to" and want to and need to be doing, and not letting myself off the hook because I'm afraid or because it's hard or because I hate getting up early. Then the discipline doesn't feel like punishment or self-torture, it feels like pleasure. And because I'm not punishing myself I'm easy on myself. When I end up contorted in some retarded position at the gym, and I'm staring at the flab on my midsection, I think it's funny, I don't think, "God you're gross." When I have emotional reactions to things that don't on the surface make any sense to me, I think, "hey, you're pretty emotionally present," not, "shut up shut up!" I stayed up a little later than I should have last night, but I was burning this really great CD. It's really creepy and pretty and it's all about the things that keep you tied up in knots. Not the perverted kind of knots. I think I'm going to fine tune it a little and issue it as my personal summer CD. Sigur Ros, Curtis Mayfield, Cat Power, something from both the new Radiohead and the new Air, Azure Ray, older Delgados, Tara Jane O'Neil, of course the Moldy Peaches. Hmm. So I've been unusually introverted. I haven't been surrounding myself with people. And I sound pretty sincere today. I'm usually so sarcastic. I think it's the getting up early. It's very disarming. I don't have the extra energy to spend on being harsh or something. So it goes. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/06/2001 12:22:00 PM ----- BODY:

Without me—Without you...

Well, the responses to our self portraiture twister contest have been fantastic—nay, incredible!— so far. There's still room for more, though. Hit me with your best shot! Y'all have til midnight tonight (whenever your midnight is)! Honestly, I just wanted to poke my head in here and say happy birthday to one special lady. That's right, it's Sandy's birthday today! We owe her so very much that I just needed to put my thanks in writing. She really stuck it out in show business, just trying to dispense a little light and wisdom. Now she's stuck at home with the baby. Okay, well her nanny is. Miss Bernhard allegedly bought the neighboring apartment and installed the nanny and the baby there. And excuse me, but what girl wouldn't? I love you Sandy, don't ever change, and stay sweet. Best Friends 4 Ever. 2 Sweet 2 Be 4gotten. Though please don't ever saunter up to one of my boyfriends and tell them how much you'd like to have their babies again. I'm whizzing around like a chicken with my head cut off. I'm faxing with one hand and on the phone with another. I'm pretending I'm Sandra playing myself. I'm my own one-man show, and I make up the entirety of the audience myself, baby! Let's get to it! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/05/2001 06:13:00 PM ----- BODY:

The 12500 Nude Twister Contest Continues... We're in the middle of a big one peoples and we've been getting a few of those in the mail as well! That's right, people are sending in their skin shots for a chance at winning the East Coast/West Coast 12500 and there's always room for more. What can you win? The main prize is the pleasure of getting to play a big game of Twister naked with RJ or myself! I mean that's bigger than Disneyland! You'll also get your very own copy of the Twister game for hours of naked twisting playing in the pleasure of your own home! What else? Your name, real or fabricated, will appear in the illustrious East West winners circle. How hot is that, right? and of course you'll receive the highly coveted East Coast/West Coast Soundtrack 1.0, the perfect listening companion for our tasty escapades! What? There's more? There is! Ron, one of our very special guest celebrity judgeshas thrown in an additional delicious summer soundtrack to sweeten the pot even more! All that and getting to see yourself right here on the internet, as full on as you want. Special shout out to the ladies: Sisters, we feel the pain of the exploitation of women. We truly do. Now send in your pics! Not only will you gain some major internet fabulosity, even if you choose to just own that for your very own self, but you'll definitely have everybody jealous for walking away with all these fabulous prizes!!!

Now Twister T-shirts are not part of the prize package. Some of our contestants are just a bit confused, like Jack and Nancy pictured above. Darlins, you're not supposed to be hiding your bodies in this game of twister, you're supposed to be taking it off! We'd like to thank them for sending in that twisterrific pic though! The two of you crack us up - especially when we know you stole the pic from the Twister fanatics at the Twister homepage. You see, nothing gets by us baby. I mean, it's not like we were dropped when we were children. There has, however, been a veritable smorgasbord of delicious pics entered though and there's more on the way. Like yours for instance. In fact, we're bringing the deadline up to Midnight on Wednesday (rather than noon) due to the fact that our server, Blogspot, went down yesterday for seven hours. Some of you complained you wanted to send your stuff in and couldn't do so. We'll give everybody juat a little more time as a result. Need details: see below. And as for you, yes, i'm talking to you! We know you have a revealing pic of yourself sitting right there on your hard drive, waiting. You know you want to. And let's face it - it's always better to regret something you have done, rather than regretting something you haven't. You know the picture I'm talking about. You also know just what to do with it baby. I mean, you've always known what to do with it. Right? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/04/2001 09:29:00 AM ----- BODY:

Get Naked! Let's Twister!

Oh yeah sexy, it's 12,500 contest time! But we just want to surprise you. We want to make you happy. We want to give you "the pleasure." Is that so wrong? Yes, that's right, we don't believe in shame. And we've made this the easiest contest to win yet. No luck involved. No photographic memory required. Just the will to pleasure! Right now, we want to find out just how far you'll go for us. Cuz then we'll know how far past the line we'll go for you! Who wants to toe the line, baby? Not us. Step on over to the funky side! Fuckin' live a little! As you know we've revealed a bit of ourselves here before. A little nipple, some pleasure trail, something for the foot fetishist in all of us, and, kazowie, Flip's shall we say, behind? We're going to be revealing even more in the sense of breaking our anonymity soon - and with that comes a price. You gotta give a little too. We're getting ready to show it all. The whole curtain's going to come down in the very near future. But honestly? We want some incentive. Here we are, telling all, having sex with our readers, putting pictures of our business on the internet. Do you know why they call me "Miss Pussy Pants"? Do you know why Flip has to beat his suitors off with a stick? Why dontcha egg us on, baby? Feed the fever!

Here's what we want: WE WANT SOME SKIN. Yours! 1. Send us any picture of yourself. Something naughty. Something racy. Something funny. Something crude. Abstract or literal, filthy or horrendous. We honestly don't care! Just understand that in sending it we may well post it here. And it doesn't have to be all that, though you're all invited. We'll settle for a revealing shoulder, a tasty tummy, a sexy set of toenails. We'll take as much as you're willing to give! 2. Email it to us with either your real name or a made-up one. Sure you'll get a shitload of hits if you show us some "pink" and put your URL with it. But we can understand the joys of anonymity, and of course, if you request anonymity, it will be respected. Just make sure you send us a valid geographical location though so we know where you're at. We had received so many entrees for our 10K Rodeo and that took work. This one is a piece of cake. 3. Don't forget to obscure those tell-tale tattoos if you're aiming for anonymity, you dirty exhibitionist! 4. Also: we've seen all the porn there is. We're porn-tastic. We know when you've ripped it off so don't even try it. Get that digital camera and get in the bathroom at work. Switch over to that "other" account and just forward what you're usually sending. C'mon people! We know. Don't make me come out there and cut you! 5. You've got 48 hours. The contest closes at noon on Wednesday. That'll give you time to scheme something good for those of you into being extra creative. Why? Oh c'mon. You know you want to see a picture of E.V.'s cute little stuff. You wanna see Barbarella dressed up like the goddess she is. You know Steve's got pictures he's just not sharing. What else does the fabulous Mr. Panchesco do with his webcam? When's her Shelleyness going to turn that camera on her excellent sexy self? The only person around with the toughness to put it out there has been the beautiful and intelligent Miss Huny. And of course we want to hear from all of you without websites, too. Excuse me, what guys wouldn't? In fact we're sending a shout out to our many loyal readers. And why the hell not? It's 2001, people. Can you smell the magic? How do you win? Like obscenity, we know what we like when we see it. So think to yourself: will this make Flip and RJ hard? Will it make them crack up? And then we'll give credit for artistry. Because this is art after all. And don't sweat it too hard. We just want some entertainment. Special guest judges To make this even more exciting (and impartial!), we've invited two guest judges, both with very different senses of hotness. Our blog boy Brian will be in league with Flip out West, and our blog leather daddy Ron will be my buddy here in the East. And even though we're all, well, homos, I hope that it won't stop our sisters from entering! We won't go into Flip's latent bisexuality right now either. Nevertheless we both have high appreciation for the female form too.

Prizes Here's what the winner gets: The incredible opportunity to join either Flip or myself for a wild up close and personal game of nude twister with one of us! With or without Crisco, mmkay? We'll spin the wheel who knows what positions will end up in. Anything can happen in a game of nude twister. You'll never think of twister the same again. But wait - theres more! You'll also receive a copy of the beloved East Coast/West Coast soundtrack, version 1.0 that many of our previous winners have raved about. Want one? This is your chance. The winner of the contest will also receive the game that inspired it all - Twister! If the winner is geographically challenged we'll have one copy of Milton Bradley's Twister sent right to your door, so you can still join in the fun and get nude and slide around with whomever you damn well please! If you're East or West however, you can keep the game when we're finished with it as a lovely party gift. And of course, let's not forget about your name in lights in our winner's circle. Isn't that one enough on its own right there!?! What do the rest of you get? Infamy, a fabulous picture of yourself right here on East Coast/West Coast, and our undying respect and admiration. Who knows, maybe anything else we choose to dish out. I mean, there are some things neither of us can turn down... And isn't that good feeling enough? To send us your naughty pictures for your big chance at internet stardom here on East Coast/West Coast, simply click on the spinner below. Come on, you know you want to. Spin it baby, Spin it!

DISCLAIMER: You know we just want to have a good time. Don't take yourself so damn seriously. I'm excited! You release us from all responsibility. Not that we're not responsible. Just don't be coming after us with your bad attitude, you know what I'm saying? This is not prostitution or gambling. All mail becomes our property. We encourage you Ivy League students in New Jersey to email your asses. All prizes get delivered in our sweet time. Mmmm, I feel glazed! Oh and save the judgement: we already know we're the trashiest trash in Blogville—and we love it! Have I made myself completely clear? I love you! Send us your stuff! Good thing I just came from yoga, I'm ready to twist it up! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/03/2001 05:59:00 PM ----- BODY:

Clubbing and Cactus

They say weekends were made for Michelob. As someone who doesn't drink, anymore, I've found weekends can still be about good friends and nights of something special. Tonight I'm going to see Calexico play at Bimbos and I'm psyched! One of my desert road trip ladies is joining me, Miss Cayenne. The two of us, along with our friend Laura, made our way all over the Southwest last summer, blazing a trail through UFO country and Area 51, taking in the wonders at Zion, spending time drinking ice tea overlooking the Grand Canyon, waiting for hours for roadside assistance in the middle of Navajo Nation. The alternator decided to call it quits. The rest of the trip was precarious with car malfunction and except for touching our past lives together at Chaco and revisiting my old home in Albuquerque, our major source of relaxation and healing came when we finally reached Tucson - the home of Calexico. The twangy sounds of guitars in the breeze across the desert is what Calexico is all about, with the occasional arrival of a Mariachi explosion. Cayenne and I will be bringing back memories of lounging in the lobby of the Hotel Congress, smoking cigarettes and wandering the city streets of a town that pretty much tops my list of future living destinations. I'm excited about the show tonight. There was no connection with Johnny Bravo this weekend (something of a primary date right now). His early bird rising and sleeping hours and my night owl lifestyle just aren't psynching up enough to even carry on a conversation. I spent most of Saturday at psychic school, two readings, a heavy set Filipino gay guy needing a spiritual hello about himself in relationship to his family, a sassy African American mother with a plethora of questions on her love life and finances. Afterwards one of my psychic friends and I went to a nearby coffee house and sipped americanos. We talked about our lives, our dreams. We're both close to graduating and neither of us has any specific ideas as to what we're even going to do with our psychic training. It's difficult to manage pursuiting alife apart from the norm in non-traditional ways while maintaining a vision chock full of creature comforts. She's studying physics and we spent time pondering the relationships between science and the spiritual. It was good time spent. Last night I needed to dance and while there was no clear destination I ended up at The Stud and shook my booty until it was shake shake shaken. Well, I tried, but the music wasn't really doing it. I just wanted to have a good time. I didn't care that it was too crowded, hot and sweaty, and that many around me were being obnoxious. There was, however, something of a love and a community feeling in the air throughout the bar that you don't always find, particularly on the weekend . This short very young handsome Latin boy wouldn't stop cruising me. At first it was rather irritating - he was interfering with me getting my groove together, though as the night went on I realized he was actually very hot and sexy, even if he wasn't really my type. Nevertheless I decided to call it a wrap anyway and was on my way to head home, when who should I run into outside the club. He was up from San Jose and soon he was following me to my house. Amazing, that's all I have to say. He lives in the South Bay so I doubt anything regular will come of it, but we did swap digits. RJ and I have been working out the details for the 12500 contest. I'm looking forward to it. I need to run now though. I have to hop in the shower, throw on something sort of desperado, and head over to North Beach. I think I'll take my camera. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/03/2001 02:35:00 PM ----- BODY:

Under the sea

RJReynoldsNYC: mmm i'm just gonna talk at you while you're away. RJReynoldsNYC: i'm wearing a great outfit myself. RJReynoldsNYC: not as great as yours will be tonight. RJReynoldsNYC: but i love my pistachio man slacks. RJReynoldsNYC: and the world's dirtiest wifebeater. RJReynoldsNYC: of course without underwear. RJReynoldsNYC: i walked around the east village this afternoon. it was like the ghosts of tricks past and future were all there. RJReynoldsNYC: but in an okay sort of way. RJReynoldsNYC: it didn't make me sad or happy. RJReynoldsNYC: but it made me think this: RJReynoldsNYC: life is short. RJReynoldsNYC: and we're all just animals. RJReynoldsNYC: that's okay. RJReynoldsNYC: i always think about the dolphins. RJReynoldsNYC: everyone thought dolphins were so nice. RJReynoldsNYC: but it turns out they roamed in gangs. RJReynoldsNYC: they get girlfriends by stealing them from other dolphin gangs. RJReynoldsNYC: it's pretty rough out there! RJReynoldsNYC: glad i don't live under the sea. RJReynoldsNYC: though it sure seems pretty. RJReynoldsNYC: i wonder what I'm going to do tonight? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 6/02/2001 11:27:00 AM ----- BODY:

Don't get too comfortable!

Last night's Kiki and Herb performance of their new show was astounding. If you don't know them I can't begin to describe them, their website does a great job. Having seen them approximately one million times over the years both here and in San Francisco (and yes, even the first performance of Kiki sans Herb), I am compelled to say that they have sunk to a new, even deeper level of insanity and intelligence. In fact Kiki's kind of becoming a self-help guru in a sense; the deadly duo has gotten more political and more ethically minded. Kiki actually had a really profound impact on me last night. She gave me kind of a mental chiropractic adjustment. She talked about the joys of feeling sorry for yourself from time to time. She discussed being overinvolved in other people's suffering to the detriment of your own perspective. And best of all, she talked about the hateful world of "prescription magazines" (Oprah, Rosie, Martha, et al) and television, and the impossibility of simultaneously comparing yourself and loving yourself. I know this all sounds a little nicey-nice—don't worry, it wasn't nice at all. It was foul and hateful. There was drink throwing and flag burning and covers of Peaches. There was a really creepy medley to pederasty performed by the no longer silent Herb. It was all gorgeous and brutal. Tonight I'm going to take my fresh knowledge, dispensed at the hands of Miss Kiki Durane herself, and I'm going out on the town. I've got some business to take care of. Sorry to be vague but all will be revealed. It's all about being upfront, ladies and gentlemen. Ask my opinion these days and you get it, in vivid color. What means this word "tears"? After all, what fun is life unless you're really going to know what you think of it all? And what fun is it not to stick it to the man? Pettiness and recriminations are so 1998. 2001 is all about freedom. Laughter and lust are the signs of life. One of my first lessons when I became an adult was this: my feelings aren't going to break anybody. I used to keep it all bottled up because it was all too much for me, but also because I thought it was so horrible to think ill of other people, just thinking it, let alone saying it. Well the pleasures of speaking one's mind are positively addictive, and if I have a message for the day, it's hit the town and spill the beans, little missy! So do you wanna funk? Do you wanna funk with me? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/02/2001 02:15:00 AM ----- BODY:

Angles

I was losing it at work today. Hippie chick was laughing at me while I went on and on , ranting and raving, picking shots at just about everthing and everybody. It felt good actually. She's in the middle of a breakup so she was right there with me. I think part of yesterday's funk was about holding a whole lot in. We both let it all out and then went out and bought a pack of cigarettes and sat on the curb smoking. All was right with the world again. The Smoking and Walking club was officially opened again shortly afterward. It was good for me, I hope it was good for her. Not only that, but when I walked back into the office I started some major boogie work action and the grant was finished before I knew it. There I was, having some sort of burnout meltdown lately, and I'm starting to wonder how much was simply due to nicotine detoxification. The pesky grant was due in a luxuriously fancy office in one of those glistening smoked glass skyscrapers downtown by 5:00 pm. I was racing through the Financial District dodging suits with cell phones. Found the address and took the elevator up to the 50th floor. I opened the door to the Foundation office and smiled at the woman at the front desk, throwing in just enough flirt factor in case I had not made the deadline. "That's quite a view" I said motioning to the City below but keeping my focus on her. She looked things over. "It does look good, doesn't it." We giggled. I gave her the package and noticed a clock. 4:59 pm. I smiled, thanked her, wished her a great weekend, and went on my way. Mission Accomplished. Driving home tonight in that ever so tasty Friday rush hour traffic I was rediscovering the true genius of Nelly Furtado. I'm serious. She's rather genius. She's just being marketed all wrong. Then I flashed on my new cds and I suddenly became excited. "Yay, my cds arrived" and sure enough, a half hour later when I got home they were sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for me. A guy at work talked me into joining the BMG music club, you know the one where you get like 12 cds for the price of 1 with nothing more to buy ever, and your friend gets free music just for turning you onto it all? Hello, Anybody interested? I picked up some good stuff: the Talk Normal anthology of Laurie Anderson I've been coveting. I just finished listening to Selmasongs by Bjork which I enjoyed much more than I thought I would, or should I say more than the movie the songs come from. What else showed up? Moby, Minnie Riperton, PJ Harvey... And yes RJ, I bought my ticket to Detroit on Priceline tonight and we're gonna rock the Motor City baby. $250 roundtrip too which is about $500 less than anything I was looking at. Thank you William Shatner. God I sound like a commercial all over the place tonight. I also got a phone message from my Doctor verifying that no, I don't have gonnorhea. It wasn't strep either. Whatever it was, the antibiotics took care of it. It's dawning on me, now that the weekend is here, that I didn't call Johnny Bravo all week. I thought about it, but part of the problem is that he gets up very early and goes to bed very early - like 9 pm. Sure, I was stuck at the office on Wednesday and Thursday night til Midnight. Sure, I was busy at psychic school on Tuesday til 11:00. It would be nice to see him this weekend though. I need to be at psychic school reading all day Saturday. I have to go into work and finish the bulletin that is late late late at some point so that can go out Monday morning. I'm psyched to be seeing Calexico on Sunday night... I'm not sure where Johnny will fit into the agenda, but it would be nice if it works out in some way, shape, or form. It was very nice waking up with him last Sunday morning. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 6/01/2001 02:57:00 AM ----- BODY:

The Northern Lights

I have a list of things I wish to do before I die. One of them was to visit the Liberace Museum in Las Vegas. I took care of that life long dream a couple years ago - and to think that man built the whole shrine to himself while he was still alive! As for other items on my list, one that's always near the top is to see the Aurora Borealis. The Northern Lights have fascinated me for many years. I bet they would blow me away. I imagine to see them I will someday need to travel, uhm, to the North, right? That's a challenge. Vacation time in my book is best spent in warm sunny climates and that's why RJ and I are going to Detroit at the end of the month. Which reminds me, I need to buy my plane ticket. Remind me, okay?

My day today wasn't full of miraculous colors filling the sky. It was full of staring at a computer screen. There were also long winded meetings to attend, none of which felt very productive. This left me feeling frustrated when I had other action items I seriously needed to address. When I had time to do so though, I didn't get much of anything completed on them. Truth is I'm bored to tears at work right now and that makes getting anything accomplished challenging. A new SF East/West reader that I've been chatting with online the past couple nights have talked about the whole concept of "burnout". I think I'm either well on my way or maybe I'm even already there. Maybe I just need a vacation, and I have one coming. The Motor City baby! It's hard to believe it's already June.

Recently I turned my eyes Northward on a quest of a different kind. I thought we needed to locate a few new sites for our link list from the Pacific Northwest to better represent the full on West Coast experience baby. Now that I have my binoculars, we'll see if these shiny blogs can make a lasting impression. Why don't you start off with Babygrrl then make your way down to hang with Frito and Statanic Action. You can even wander a bit and check in on the Crasspastor. Whether you see him or not don't forget to wander through the Urban Forest. Four new sites, and another I'm finally linking. I enjoyed her while she was on the other side of the Bay, but now that she's living in Vancouver it seems I'm going to need to do a little more to keep up with Caterina. I'm already enjoying her Canadian adventures. Speaking of adventures, our 12,500 contest is getting closer all the time. Stay tuned for details. As for me, I'm tuning out. It's way past my bed time for the third night in a row. Goodnight. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/31/2001 10:28:00 AM ----- BODY:

Fry an Egg On the Internet

You could you know. It's just that hot here. It broke 100 degrees at the office yesterday. I was coming back from a meeting with all the windows of my Jetta open, the hot dry wind caressing my body yet failing to cool it in any sense or fashion. Truth is I love that feeling. It's one of my favorites. This week is looking like I'm going to be soaking in too much productivity at the office, rather than soaking up some sun and surf in the midst of this heatwave. I'd rather be naked at the beach, running in the waves and avoiding the frolicing wet frisbee retrievers as I go. For the most part I really don't care much for pets. Part of that is probably due to my being allergic to dogs and cats, though part of that is probably due to the fact that I'm self centered enough that I think it should really be all about me. Don't you hate it when you go to someone's house and they spend the whole time talking oogly boogly with their animal of choice while you try and distract them with other topics? Worse yet is when your dream date and you finish a hot night of good natural loving and they should be spending the night, but he/she/it has to go home to walk/feed/play bingo with that dog again. Maybe that's just me. The House Mate has a couple of goldfish and every time I'm in the kitchen near the tank all they want is food. Personally, I had higher hopes for them. I've receieved communication from my the most beautiful girl in the world, Oblivia:

Precious one, just a quick note from Bergen (yes, Norway - the country of pink-cheeked, well-fed folks!) to say how much it warmed my heart to glimpse our little love-child sitting pretty next to your computer in the cactus photo. I shall next be checking in with East Coast/West Coast from gaie Paris ~ look forward to keeping synched with your life there, Doll. I miss you and keep remembering our other-worldly night together, Love and so many kisses, Oblivia

I bet it's nice and cool in Norway. It's supposed to be even hotter here today baby. That's right, we're talking a veritable meltdown. What will I be doing? Yesterday I was at the office until midnight working and the next two days may end up being similar. I certainly hope not. I certainly hope I can take some moments to mosey outside, tell my head to shut the fuck up, and enjoy the beauty of what lies around me. Sure, sometimes we all might want to just push the big red button, but how can we even talk of doing such an incredibly selfish and cruel thing to everyone around us. Personally, I'm glad I have friends in high places. Sometimes it all needs to fall apart so something new can be built. Our mission is to simply get out of the way of holding on to what needs to go so that the good that's in store for us can get here. Like you can't go through two doors at the same time. Close one of em. Life is, after all, the biggest trip there is. The ultimate mind fuck. The tastiest peaches, whether you like them moldy or freshly picked from the tree. Those kind of threats are taken just as seriously as bomb jokes in our airport Mister and part of me wants to fly out to the Big Apple just to kick your muscular drama queen ass and slap some motherfucking sense into you, while the other thinks it best to sit back, relax, and simply send you some love and light today. I'll be doing the latter. May whatever your higher sort of power in your life is be at your side through all of this. My guess is that he/she/it already is. I added some new links to the West that I'm going to be checking out for awhile. For starters, I want to highlight and send a shout out to a few fellow Oaktown bloggers: George, Third World Woman, and most definitely the one and only Starmama who informed me what that Memorial Day parkfest that had all the traffic police in a tizzy Monday night was all about. It's called Carijama and she can tell you more about it. I need to get stuff done now. I hope my new Oakland bloggers will be keeping cool in all this sweltering amazing heat. As for the rest of you, especially those of you dealing with your dogs, may you all have the most pleasant of days. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/30/2001 11:39:00 PM ----- BODY:

An open letter

This is an open letter in response to the Blogstalker's latest post. My most insincere and empty apologies to anyone who thinks this is out of line. I'm not going to pretend you're not saying the stuff you're saying—I've been overlooking your suicidal hints for a while and that's not cool for me. I don't know what you're thinking or planning, and I don't know if this post is just an expression of your feelings or a venting; I don't know how real this is for you and that's not really the issue. The point is that you've made it real for the rest of us, so now this time it's personal, as they say. The last time I was homeless, I couldn't figure a way out and the only thing I could think about was to die. It was all painful, humiliating, horrible, confusing. Alcohol was an excellent choice of pain-numbing material for me, but of course proved to be counter-productive. I remember being woken up by the horrible Los Angeles sunrise, in the front seat of someone else's car that I temporarily called home, bathed in sweat. All I could think is, how the bloody fuck did this happen to me? This wasn't the way my life was supposed to go. I was smart, talented, good-looking, well-liked. I was supposed to be somebody. And nobody loved me, or at least I fully believed that. I could feed you a shitload of platitudes about how history will reveal this period of your life as a joke. That you'll look back at this as an incredible and painful time that changed the course of your life, and that things will be revealed to you that will surprise and amaze you. I believe all that stuff, from the bottom of my heart, but I don't expect you to. All you sound is traumatized and scared and confused. Believe I believe that stuff then. For me it was that I felt like disappearing because I thought I was already as good as dead. Everything outside didn't match up with my deeply held beliefs about who I was and who I was supposed to be. I couldn't face any more of the hideous daily torture. The future made me sick. That old me, and all those preconceptions, they were being ripped away. The behaviors that made me homeless, the received attitudes and habits that kept me from functioning like a normal person, they kept me suicidal. They were what told me: YOU FAILED, YOU FAILED, and you'll never be as good as an actual person. If you're going to take any suggestions at all from me, let it be this: First, give up the suicide escapist crap. Second of all: stop the snowballing nightmare. You're pretty broke and you're suddenly moving because you can't afford where you live. That's it. That's what's on your plate and as you know that's plenty to handle right now. The rest will take care of itself. The wanting to disappear will itself disappear, vanish away. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/30/2001 08:37:00 PM ----- BODY:

My new favorite band

All those hookers in their fuckin cars Twelve steppin' hippies hangin out at the bars Suckers and fuckers and stupid retards New York City's like a graveyard!

Every great once in a while, you put in one of your new CD purchases, and sit down to listen. By the end of the first song, you know it's already made your top 10 list of the year. Maybe even the decade. It hasn't happened to me in a long time. PJ Harvey's Rid of Me in 1993, Rodan's Rusty in 1994; Ann Magnuson's The Luv Show in 1995. Wow, I'm dating myself. Anyway, tonight is one of those nights. How excited am I? I can't even tease you anymore. I'm warning you: it's lo-fi. It's anti-folk. It's not very pretty. But it rocks my world. From their cover of Little Bunny Foo Foo, to the harsh rip on our hometown of NYC's Like a Graveyard, it makes me laugh and it kicks ass. There's even an angry song about not having a Duran Duran boyfriend. Anyway, they're incredibly sweet and intelligent and rude and harsh. And I'm a sucker for both a band with excellent lyrics and with two lead singers. Indeed... I present to you, ladies and gentlemen: The Moldy Peaches! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/30/2001 04:21:00 PM ----- BODY:

Temporary, temporary...

There's a time when every girl learns to use her head, tears will be saved til they're better spent. There's no time for her to be afraid, so instead she takes care of business, keeps a cool head... —Romeo Void

Oh, and here I struggled on that post yesterday to describe something about myself, when all I really had to do is refer you to a Romeo Void quatrain. As usual. If I was a teenage girl (imaginary or not), this blog would be chockful o' song lyrics. Heavy on the 80s, though, you know. Enough of that! I'm feeling perky. I was just in the deli getting a late (5 p.m.) lunch; I had a hankering for toasted bagels with Swiss cheese. Mmmm. I got to my corner deli, but sadly an ancient gas station attendant, clad in a white jumpsuit and a white Rip Van Winkle beard, had gotten there just before me. He was ordering 7 mayonnaise sandwiches. My buddy behind the counter was slathering on the mayo. "More, more," croaked the old man. There was an inch of mayo on that bread, on both sides. It was like frosting a wedding cake. I waited. And waited. Fortunately the mayo was endlessly fascinating. I've never seen such a thing. But unfortunately I ended up with two bagels with cheddar. I really wanted Swiss. But I think the counterman was so flabbergasted by the half pound of mayo that all his circuitry was blown. All he knew is that I wanted cheese. And cheese I have! This is my first big dairy experience in, let's see, in 17 days. For those not in the know, I contracted some sort of ailment which involved me not being able to eat. For almost exactly two weeks I ate toast. The best part is that I gave up all beverages besides water. And now, now that I'm largely healthy and full of life, and digesting food again, I don't want any of all that food stuff. I don't even want any beverages. I was out on a fun fig last night, and I tried a sip of soda at the glamorous Galaxy Diner. I thought I was going to spew. The flavor is a lie! So let's see. I gave up sugar. I gave up fat. I gave up meat. Somewhere in the middle of all that I gave up TV. I couldn't watch it anymore, it was just so grating. Of course I gave up sex (that won't last long). I gave up about 10 pounds. And I gave up coffee last year anyway, and of course I don't drink alcohol or anything like that. So what did I have? The white food diet. It was practically a freaky fast. Oh yeah, water, bread, and about four cartons of cigarettes. Smokie the fucking bear. I wonder what's going to become of this all. I feel pretty... and kind of empty? Is this how supermodels feel? I miss bacon but I don't crave it. Frankly? I'm horny. I feel full of carbohydrates and ready to flip out all over someone. I'm kind of spastic—my attention span isn't all it could be. One thing I do realize however is that my brain has been working really well this year. My chemicals have been correctly balanced for quite some time now, and even this drastic diet didn't upset my properly adjusted chemical state. Cuz when that goes, everything goes. Next thing you know, I don't have any fingernails, I'm not getting in elevators, I'm counting my fingers over and over again, and so forth. Truly, I'm happy almost all the time, and I'm not on anything. My mental health is all green-light go. You don't hear that being said in Blogville much these days, now do ya? And honey, if you still doubt it, here's my experience and I'll swear by it: 70% of happiness is chemical and the other 30% is spiritual. Whatever. It's a gorgeous evening out, it's probably 68 degrees and pretty still. I can smell the Hudson River; the light is gorgeous. It's 7 p.m. Dr. Needles just called to tell me that Madonna has sold out her New York show. He wanted to know if he should call the scalpers for me. "I've never seen Madonna before, why would I now?" I said to him. He was confused. Off he goes, into the dark underbelly of the resale concert ticket world, something I know nothing about. I've never been a lot of places. I realized last night I'd never been to the Met. I've never been to the land of relentless mayonnaise sandwiches either. And you know what? I don't really care. It's a trap for me to think that I haven't lived. I've seen things that would make most people turn inside out. I think it's time to stop fooling myself that I'm going to stay late at the office and get anything done. That shipment ain't going to Italy tonight. Those jpegs aren't going to get color corrected. Those new labels aren't going to get redesigned. Guess they'll just have to wait, cuz I'm going outside, outside, outside! I've got CDs to buy, taxis to moodily stare out of, guys to cruise, oddities to appreciate, other people's issues to shake off, and tight pants to fit into... -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/30/2001 01:21:00 AM ----- BODY:

Watermelons Are Not The Only Fruit

Yesterday I parked my car off Piedmont Avenue here in Oakland. I'd just made my way through an endless maze of police barracades. "The Man" was swooping in to mess with the brothers and sisters who were having some big party in the park. Memorial Day Madness I imagine. As I got out of my Jetta an old man with a long white beard came up to me and looked at me oddly. He was wearing a grey suit that had seen better days. He didn't say a word. In one hand he had half a watermelon. In the other, a fork. I nodded to him and hurried off to Gaylords Coffee House to meet the Daily Dean for java and dinner. He was waiting patiently. The place was a zoo. I ordered a vanilla decaf latte and listened to the East Bay's very own Journey while they frothed my milk. Steve Perry, barely audible over the roar of the crowd and machines. Dean and I decided that food was essential. As we stood out front in decision making mode I couldn't help but think about the delicious 8 Legged DJ from Sacramento, a previous East/West contest winner who captured my heart at the table sitting next to me. At the time DJ was a California man of mystery, only now, finally, you all can keep tabs on him. I certainly will be. Tonight he's actually in San Francisco clubbing with friends, paying a visit to my good friend Heklina at Trannyshack. I seriously thought about meeting up with him tonight, but I just couldn't swing it. Dean and I ended up grabbing a couple of burgers at Barneys, splitting some fries, and catching each other up on the scenes behind the scenes. I had not seen him since the Low concert and we had plenty to talk about - boys, blogs, blogs, boys and such. An older gentlemen who commented on Dean's watch seemed a little too interested in our conversation. I couldn't help but wonder if he was perhaps a reader, of one if not both of us. He vanished when we were paying the bill. I caught my first glimpse of Granny last night and I have to say that Dean truly is a good guy. I'm glad my little corner of the world has such good blog pals. I'm one lucky guy. When I got back to my car there was a present waiting. Half an empty watermelon shell with a fork sticking in it. It reminded me of the truth about our seasons here. I could have gone for a juicy slice of watermelon today. It was hot. I bet it was really cookin in Fresno where our President took a whole 17 minutes out of his hectic schedule today. I hear he spent twice that long in Los Angeles meeting with Governor Davis about our energy crisis and nothing was resolved. What a surprise. I mean why even bother showing up at all Dubya. If he'd been in a more public setting and little closer to my world I would have hatched a civil disobedience action plan of some sort. Bush was smart enough not to show his face to anyone from the general public. Let's just say we like a good lynching in California and we're overdue. Someone who is popular, or at the very least should be popular, is none other than her Shelleyness. I have to say that this is one of her best pieces yet. My only wish is that she would have taken the lunch invitation for the perfect ending. Nevertheless, your Shelleyness, I salute you. It's been great tonight catching up on some reading, sending off birthday wishes to someone extra special , eating more of my pineapple/orange jello, listening to Giant Sand, a direct relative of Calexico. I decided something today. Calexico/Giant Sand is truly my favorite band(s) these days. They make me want to move to Tucson even more so I can stalk them and catch every single one of their dreamy little shows. Maybe Richard would go with me. God is that school picture so fucking hot baby. Anyways, I'm counting the days to the Calexico concert here. Why am I still wearing my work clothes. I'm gonna slip off these gorgeous new shoes that I love so much. Off comes the short sleeve crisp white Banana Republic dress shirt. Enough of these Chinos too. I wanna be free! Yeah baby, relax, breathe, undress, let's get naked. Maybe Mr. Right isn't even here in the Bay Area. I'm willing to accept that, though I don't know if that's true. Sometimes it seems that the huge wealth of gay men here adds a strange inertia to the likelihood of romance department. There are always so many other guys to choose from, so many distractions arriving and available now. It's hard for me to maintain a sense of status quo in that environment, yet I really don't want to be one of those "let's get together and oh, by the way, i'm married, my partner doesn't mind, it's cool baby..." kind of guys. I'm just not one for playing games. Sure, some of you might think otherwise. So we've raffled ourselves off to site visitors in our contests, but that's not all we're about. Some of you just see nothing but the smut when you visit a site, but when we are sad do we not cry? When you cut us do we not bleed? When we accidentally slam our fingers in a car door do we not keel over in a great deal of agonizing pain? It's really all about the truth, keeping East/West the real deal. Soon enough we'll be telling it all from a very real perspective when the anonymity factor crashes to an end like Madonna hitting a telephone pole. We're ready for the real world baby, we're not afraid of a little fender bender. The velvet curtain is going to drop soon, not unlike my bar of soap in the shower of a local locker room near you. That was a joke. Seriously. Okay, let's not fight about it. Muchas Gracias to the linkalicious Phancy. I'm off to bed. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/29/2001 02:32:00 AM ----- BODY:

With The Works, Hold The Mayo

I can't believe you quoted Cibo Matto. I was listening to them all day. Synchronicity. Now I'm listening to Lifeforms by Future Sound of London. I replaced it at Amoeba when I went cd shopping Sunday morning. Listening, I've been reminded for the second time this weekend of my tendency to sell music that becomes too associated with ex boyfriends or even, more significant dates, just so I won't have to be reminded of them. Ah, that's why I don't have that disc anymore. I'm also discovering I miss out when I do that. I really love this cd and I can't even remember what his name was. He was tall and skinny. Hmmm. I don't know. I don't even remember when our server went down anymore, it seems so long ago, but I do remember what I haven't shared with you so let's get caught up, shall we? The House Mate and I spent the evening at home Wednesday night watching Like Mother Like Son and feasting on Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. If you missed it you missed the TV movie of the year, a seriously choice night of entertainment. The House Mate is insisting neither of us tape over it so we can watch it weekly and learn every line from beginning to end - that should tell you something, besides the fact that the House Mate isn't well. Mary Tyler Moore produced the film as well, probably just so she could play someone like Sante Kimes for a change and she was fantastic, probably as a result of having greater affinity for her character this time. She's gonna make it after all motherfucker. It's brilliant, in a Showgirls kind of way. I've been spending quite a bit of time at psychic school. I only have a few months left in my program and I'm trying to make the most of them. Thursday night was probably the best reading so far. We were short people so it was just me and this guy who had interesting things to look at, even though he wasn't into being there. He was defensive, a smartass. I think he came with a friend so it wasn't his idea. His line of questions started off like, "I wanna know about travel. Tell me places I've been." While I'm used to being "psychic on demand" now, I've been afraid the time would come when someone would be more concerned with me proving myself then even trying to get a hello on anything in their life. I wasn't sure I'd be able to hack it. I handled it all in stride though - and the guy practically peed his pants when I started telling him of his travels. It even blew me away, like wow - I really am psychic! Of course I knew that, but now I know it even more. On Saturday I was part of two other readings, a lady from India who was a bit of a pest and this motorcycle girl who was obsessed with her love life. Funny, even after she agreed that her ex husband was an abusive alcoholic jerk, she really wanted to know how soon it would be before they got back together. Friday night I started my Memorial Day weekend off avoiding bumper to bumper traffic by making a pit stop at the Steamworks. I had a pass for a free room as a result of that altercation the last time I was there, so I decided to use it. It turned out to be the 25th Anniversary of the baths and there were platters of free subway sandwiches. They were giving out prizes to customers. It was more like a night of blue light specials at K-Mart than being at a sex club. I had a few minor and relatively unfulfilling brief interactions until I got the picture that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was too difficult, move on. I packed myself up and headed home to find a giant boar's head sitting on the sofa. The House Mate's enthusiasm for taxidermy as art is finally starting to cross the line.

Speaking of horrors, Saturday night I went to see Little Shop of Horrors on my second date with Johnny Bravo. It was nice of him to accompany me to my friend's show, cause you never know if something is going to be good just cause your friend is in it. Johnny and I grabbed some dinner at Whole Foods before hand, sat outside in the balmy evening air eating grilled asparagus and catching up on our week apart. At the theater the new guy from work and his partner joined us, making it a table for four. My review? Excellent! I loved it! They were great and it was amazing for such a small theater too. Enjoyment from beginning to end. Afterwards Johnny asked me to spend the night at his place. We both had our cars so we rendezvoused awhile later at his apartment building, one of those big grand places off Market below the Castro. The fact that he has a one bedroom to himself is a sign of either major success, a trust fund, or very long term stability in one location. That's how it works in San Francisco and he doesn't strike me as particularly stable. He made it home before I got there and when I arrived there were candles lit all over the place. While the decor was far more practical, classic and antique then mine there was a certain comfort amidst the romantic flickering flames. He gave me a tour and I couldn't help but start to look at things with a scrutinizing eye. I noticed his book collection contained very questionable selections. Nice view from up here though. That painting is, well, I hope it has sentimental value. Later as we started kissing he put on some music, a swing jazz disc by Harry Connick Jr.. Let's just say there was a large horn section. We spent considerable taking things slow, foreplay a-go-go, so much so that we eventually fell asleep without even consummating anything. It was great holding him and being held all night long. The next morning, after taking care of some unfinished business from the night before, we showered and dressed and wandered over to Kates Kitchen for breakfast. We awoke early enough to beat the crowds, only waiting outside for maybe five minutes, while the forty or fifty people waiting when we left were in for the long haul. Standing there waiting to eat I couldn't help but think about Chris. We dated for a couple of months a year and a half ago? Same neighborhood. Same breakfast spot the following morning our first night together. Same chemical dependency history that had only recently been put on hold. Then the door to the cafe opened and a nice looking guy comes running out and hurls all over the sidewalk. It might have given someone the impression that the food wasn't tasty at Kate's, but all of us who were waiting agreed it was probably more a result of last night's partying than anything served here. I had the huge cornmeal pancakes with strawberries, bananas and lemon curd. During breakfast he thanked me for a wonderful evening. "This is all kind of new to me honestly. It's been a long time since I've actually slept with someone, in bed, all night. It was really nice" "It was nice. I take it you're not used to having sex, well, horizontally?" He said no. (You're not the only one working on these issues RJ.) My review? Very enjoyable night and definitely rolling in the right direction, but still somewhat skeptical about the overall picture for some reason. Must investigate further. I plan on seeing him again, probably very soon. I'm eating a large bowl of orange/pineapple jello. I've started mixing two different flavors together and creating my own incredible taste sensations. Mmmm. Johnny Bravo is a handsome devil, though he got his haircut and the whole Greg Brady reference doesn't work at all anymore. He's also starting to get over the nice factor, like he's just barely letting himself breathe and relax. The man beneath the ken doll exterior might be even more enjoyable. We shall see. The rest of my time has been occupied with getting some things in order here at East Coast/West Coast. For those of you who want to venture down our sidebar you will find a new and improved "heavy rotation" section featuring new cds we're totally digging. You'll also find our new "essentials" section so you can check in on what exactly RJ and I are obsessed with lately, like my new black Aberdeen Birkenstock dress shoes - I'm loving em! The Essentials on East Coast West Coast: We're digging it - we hope you will too. Even though I'm still not entirely up to date with the events of the past several days, I must get to bed. More will be revealed including an account of my dinner tonight with a special guest blogger of note. All of this and more awaits, in due time... -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/28/2001 11:22:00 PM ----- BODY:

Working for Vacation

When I think of something it goes out to space
Then it comes back (to me) in another shape
We know we are not apes, but we could make sweet seedless grapes
--Cibo Matto

Fuck this town man. I don't have to take this shit. I showed up a little late at work last Friday to tell them I'd be leaving early for the weekend. Hmm, whatcha gonna do, fire me? Sometimes I get to that state where I realize I've lost perspective and gratitude. Let's see, the cushiest, funnest, most interesting job in the world? How dare they make me show up there—at 11 a.m., that's a.m. as in "in the morning", every day, no less! Bastards! I lose this persective more and more in the summer, as vacation time looms... Crispy burned-out brain. I needed to go out and suck up some nature and dance til my toes bleed. Which of course I promptly did. Less than many people in my life, but still with some oomph behind it, I swing between the poles of ambition and laziness. As time goes on, I'm pretty content more and more to let lazy—and by laziness, I probably mean acceptance— win. I don't have much in the way of ambition besides towards having a good, no, better than good, life. I'm not invested in being famous, I'm not attached to marketing my creative genius. I worry about my artist friends. I think their ambition tortures them quite a bit. I'm thinking here of my Xboyfriend of course, and of some of the artists I work with. I'm interested in laughs, long talks, wacky outfits, well-cooked dinners. I'm lucky because my job encourages my personality, in essence: a lot of what I sell is who I am. I don't have to mount a production of my craft, or get it framed, thank god, because I couldn't do what they do, and I've done theatre, opera, instrumental music, writing, painting, you name it. I think it's incredible when a friend puts on a show. I'm always surprised that anything creative gets made and brought out in this world. Me, I'm being my creativity most of the time. Oh, I know, how Warholian. Well whatever. Everyone needs an outlet. And I mean everyone: I don't distinguish between artists and nonartists. That's an artificial bunch of crap as far as I'm concerned. Tonight I was trying to describe a quirk of my personality earlier to someone whom I adore, and I failed miserably, which totally made me crazy. I have a quality about me that is both a liability and a complete pleasure. It's more useful than dangerous these days, as my mental health has improved over the years. I guess you could label this quirk detachment. Here's the con: sometimes I don't realize how much people or situations mean to me. I had a great friend, often referred to in this blog as the deposed dotcommer, and he reacted poorly to my detachment. He was the active person in our friendship, he called me more often, he was more engaged. Although he wanted more time out of me than I was prepared to offer as a friend, and in my opinion he had some other parts in the dissolution, my part in it was that I was detached from my appreciation of what a great friend he was. I could have done things to save that pretty fabulous friendship, only I didn't realize it at the time. From time to time people act strangely around me—well, at me— because they don't feel like they're getting a response from me. And whenever something odd happens, when someone acts out at me, I recognize the situation as familiar. These are special occurences and they demand time and serious attention to tease out in their full complexity. These are important moments in my life, because this is when I get a big cartoon bubble of clarity. Then I get to sift through the archeological dig site, shard by shard. I adore the benefits of detachment as well. Detachment gives me room for everyone around me to do as they will, not needing my approval, reaction, input, disapproval, or most importantly, control. What I was trying to say to my friend is that things are equally true for me at one time and then aren't later. But that doesn't mean they weren't true. It's just that they're feelings. Later I will have another feeling. And they can't be reconciled. Let me just say that I am cautious and prudent and rash and emotional. I'm a plurality baby. I contain multitudes. It would take a nation of millions to hold me back. Can I do forearm stands on the beach in the morning? Then suck down a pack of cigarettes? Sure, baby. Can I spend an hour admiring the beginnings of spring berries in the woods? And then bitch out some ill-advised queen in the supermarket? Oh yeah. So live it up with me. Life is a rollercoaster. What an incredibly mellow weekend on Fire Island, filled with napping, resting, snoozing, and relaxing with excellent fellow mellowheads. I took Dr. Needles out for the weekend, to chill with the lesbian couple and a girlfriend of theirs from San Francisco. It was an excellent mesh. The SF girl promised if we got her drunk enough we could shave her out a mullet. Sadly, it was Sunday and there was no liquor. I tried to pour the beers down her throat, god knows. Dr. Needle's did some excellent accupressure and brought us St. John's Wort gum. Everyone got along incredibly, and on a rainy weekend, that's crucial. Of course, it was nice enough half the time that I still got a sunburn. Sunny delight! In the spirit of contradiction, the highlight of my weekend was Fatboy Slim playing on Fire Island. I'm still not sure why the powers that be thought they would get a megaheadliner for a crowd of about 150 people, but it worked out great for me! Dr. Needles and I weren't sure we were going to go, and pay the, ahem, 40 dollar cover, but we were peering in as Mr. Slim took over the booth and you could smell the magic. We ponied up the big bucks, and it was fantastic. Despite a New Year's resolution back in 1998 to go dancing more, I don't boogie down much. And I certainly don't do it til 5 a.m., dancing in front of the DJ booth with a big smile on my face and a really sore ass. Miss Honey Dijon took over late. God it was good. The deep taste of funk. So I'm a punk who likes house music. So I'm a fag who loves his lezzies. I hate to shave but I love pretty shoes. I like Tiffany's boxes and Doc Martens both. I adore octopus but hate squid. My pager is super but I can't get with cell phones. I like to cry at sad movies and laugh at angry music. Seeing the sunrise makes me nervous cuz I've been awake too long. I love sucking fingers but I'm not into shrimping. Fanny Dooley loves apples but she hates pears. Fanney Dooley loves carrots but she hates radishes. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/26/2001 06:50:00 PM ----- BODY:

The Whole World Is Late This Week

We're back online after several days with our site deader than a doorknob. I'd like to apologize on behalf of East West for all of the technical difficulties and all the 402 and 502 messages you've been getting on your way here. It's not that we could have done anything about it. Actually we've both felt extremely powerless over the situation. I just finished a long day at psychic school, checked on the status of our site, published it, and we're back online. Thank you to all of you who sent us email telling us you missed us during the interim. I was surprised by how many of you were jonesing or going into withdrawal or needing your fix - are we really that addictive? There are things for RJ and I to catch you up on, but for right now I must run - and he's still at the beach. I have a date with Johnny Bravo and he'll be here any second now. We're gonna grab some dinner someplace and go see "Little Shop of Horrors". My friend is in the play so I hope it's good cause I'm definitely going out of duty more than anything. Who knows. I might like it. And who knows about Johnny. I might like him too. I imagine our second date will shed a lot more light on the situation, right? More will be revealed, in luxurious detail, soon. It's great to be back. Somebody tip the maid. fLiP CiTy -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/24/2001 12:29:00 AM ----- BODY:

Housekeeping

While Blogspot is busy trying to clean up the mess they've made and relocate everything to a new server, and while Blogger is busy printing up a second batch of Blogger T-shirts while East/West is dead until who knows when, RJ and I have decided to just take a vacation. Blogspot, our server, actually went down Tuesday afternoon. That was over a day ago already and we've been informed it will be 1 to 4 days before we're back online. While our initial plan was to just maintain things status quo, all of this dust is making us sick. We're leaving it all to the maid. If you need us, we'll both be at the beach eating cherries and rubbing them on our lips and cheeks to feel pretty. We'll be drinking big green bottles of Pellagrino, working on our sun tans and plotting the move of our blog in the future. We don't know exactly when we'll be back. Oh, and lady - be sure not to leave any more of those friggin little soaps. I think a bar might have been responsible for the whole Blogspot meltdown. If you know what's good for you you'll keep em out of our way. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/23/2001 01:49:00 AM ----- BODY:

Glass Houses

Once on a roadtrip with no particular destination you and I drove that stretch of highway and I caught a glimpse of the farmhouse. You acted as if seeing that flash of landscape from the window of a speeding car didn't bother you, but I knew that it did. How could a place so loaded for you not have an effect? I mean you are alive and living, right? When I think of your father I get a sense of the pain that man must be in. People do crazy things when they're in pain. One of the craziest was indeed that friend who killed herself, but let's face it. I'm a California fag who has considered suicide when the rainbow was enuf. What fag hasn't? And yet it seems clear to me that had I wasted myself years ago I would have been committing murder. I didn't know me. I did not have the foggiest clue who I would become. It would have been like taking down a total stranger, yet she offed herself and staged the scene for her girlfriend to find her and forever cement the memory. I honestly have little judgment these days though, something I have found that just comes naturally when I'm focused and in tune with my own particular strengths and weaknesses; when i'm right size about it all. Remove ourselves from the game of judgment and we often find ourselves in a place of feelings. I congratulate you on not just throwing stones. The sun was blinding and hot on Monday morning when I wandered outside, bleary eyed, to fetch that jar of finger nail polish remover from my Jetta. One thing lead to another and not only were my nails free from the enamel bondage of the night before, the inside of my car had been cleaned out, vacuumed, the outside freshly scrubbed and shined. There's something very manly about washing cars that brings to mind an older Christopher Knight, shirtless, with a long spouting hose in his hand. It was nice having Monday off. It was greatly needed following a weekend with little to no free time to relax. I laid around in bed semi-napping and listening to Barry Manilow. I remember all my life, raining down as cold as ice... I went online and purchased my Calexico tickets. I'm psyched to see them play live for the first time at Bimbos 365 Club. The videotape of the Mary Tyler Moore serial killer movie continues to wait in my VCR for a time when the housemate and I can watch it together. Another roll of Pillsbury low fat cinnamon rolls waits in the fridge for our upcoming night of revelling in tabloid trash television. We've both been waiting for "Like Mother, Like Son" for weeks and the time will probably arrive tomorrow. Johnny Bravo called me at work today. He had cancelled our Wednesday date because he forgot he had a prior engagement and he was checking in for when we could reschedule. We talked about our weekends and he told me that the only thing that could have made his better was a visit from me. We're going to go out on Saturday night. A friend of mine is appearing in "Little Shop of Horrors" and though I'm not much of a guy for theater, I did promise him I'd come see the play - so maybe Johnny Bravo and I will do that on our date. I'm looking forward to seeing him. I don't think even an evening of showtunes and man eating plants can spoil that. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/22/2001 07:41:00 PM ----- BODY:

my time in the sun

I go crazy when it rains. Manhattan bogs down to a near standstill, street traffic becomes a reflected blur. It's been pouring for days here. Who told you you were allowed to rain on my parade? Ah, my mistake for having therapy this morning. Oh I've been maudlin this last 24 hours. But now, I'm all grown up, my feelings flow so fast. I go from fear, shaky knees and all, to sadness, and then when that's done its job, on to anger. Sweet, liberating anger. Anger, like lust, a sign of the willingness to live and continue. I was talking to a writer friend about her hideous break-up with her abusive ex-girlfriend a few years back. She dumped the girl after she finally got punched in the face. She sat around her east village hovel for months, eating food out of cans and going cold turkey off bad relationships. Suddenly her sex drive came back, and she credits her pussy with saving her life. She fucked every baby dyke in the East Village that summer. And then, as suprisingly as it came, my anger is gone. It disappears into gratitude and understanding. So many misinterpret "understanding" or "acceptance" as complacency or resignation. I always did, contemptously. I just finished a big bowl of white rice with a side order of crumpet, the biggest and most flavorful meal I've had in 9 days now. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow. God I'm thin. This train of thought leads me to all sorts of things I'd like to blog about (follow me); the last time I rimmed someone (1992), our friend who killed herself in a manner so that her girlfriend would find her, the music I listened to in the hammock this last weekend (Mogwai and St. Etienne and Calexico), all sorts of recollections. The rain brings out my love of reminiscence. And though I can never get enough of the vague, I'll tell you this story anyway: I always associate a certain memory with sadness, and this is it. I often took the train from Los Angeles to San Francisco, years gone by. Right in the middle of that trip is where my father and step-mother live. The Central Valley is creased with rivers that are dry in the summer, but continue to run below ground. Great rocky beds, grown over with yellow wheat, are surrounded by aged trees, themselves cocooned in spanish moss. Cows graze, dog packs hunt. Hotter and dustier than ever, the barns and cow pens of my father's farm are anchored right there on the train tracks. So everytime we approach the tiny town, I go to a window, to watch one of the places I grew up fly past. The last time I took that trip, I sat in the observation car smoking. I was probably 20 years old, maybe 21. We turned the bend, my anticipation and actual fear rising. And there, across the short field, my stepmother walked down the concrete steps of the dairy barn. She swung herself into the car, her dirty blonde hair flashing in the sun. I could see the scars from the accident years before— I had heard of it second hand, in which her jaw and a cheekbone were broken and then wired back together. I could see that she seemed to be wearing the same pair of jeans I saw her in 7 or 8 years previously. She was still driving the same second-hand Volvo. Then the train pulled around the corner, and that was the last I saw of my stepmother. It was like peering into the past, or maybe like being a painter, suddenly being surprised by a decades-old painting. I wondered, do they think of me? Do they think I'm real? Are they angry with me? Disappointed? Revolted? Or have they put me out of their minds entirely? Do they still sit at the shaded dining room table in their white farmhouse, eating rabbit and goat and cheese and drinking wine? Do they still argue about what's wrong with provincial America? Does their sheepherding dog still leap to snatch meat thrown from the table? Is their house still surrounded by enormous bushes of spearmint? I remember being up at 2 a.m., when a goat would give birth, or when an animal was dying, and through the animal stench would cut a fresh breeze of mint... Could the two of them still live alone in that isolation, listening to the sounds of trucks in the night on Highway 101, El Camino Real? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/22/2001 01:46:00 AM ----- BODY:

Tell Me All About Your Pretty Boy Face

I'm listening to the mellow twangy sounds of Mojave 3's Excuses for Travellers and thinking about how much I love Cherry Grove. My summer strolls on the boardwalks with you, our long naps, our swims in the Atlantic, our longer naps, they linger in the air with the anticipation of what is to come. I'm taking the very last pill of my 10 day kick-ass, hard core, rot-gut antibiotic regimen. I must be well now, right? The Psychic Fair on Saturday placed many a character in the seat across from me, people in need of vision and advice, souls in need of validation and a spiritual "hello". The lady who, while on a business trip to the east coast, met a man she instantly knew and has not been able to forget since. The guy who thought he had suffered a traumatic kundalini experience and could I check his damage. The girl who was having visitations from her grandfather - what does he want? The boy who had the girlfriend that made everybody happy - so why wasn't he happy with her? These questions and many others were brought to light. When Day 1 of the fair was closing I ended up assigned to a project with the only gay student I've ever given serious thought to. It's not that he's my type, he's not at all, but the psychic aspects of my life have become important enough that I see the value of having a guy who can speak my language, share my visions. While it's not a requirement, it would be pretty cool. As for Will I never gave him much thought until his starring role in that wild sex dream I had. Though he's already partnered up, he's been on my radar ever since. We spent an hour and a half on a task that should have taken us thirty minutes. Clearly we were prolonging the situation to enjoy each other's company. We talked incessantly about school, life, being male, being gay... It was during the sexuality discussion that he told me, point blank, that if he could have sex with anyone at school I was top of the list. After some hesitation I went ahead and informed him he is the only man of intrigue on my campus. We silently sat there and looked at one another for a while, these restrained yet goofy grins on our faces. He clearly has no interest in cheating on his partner. I clearly have no desire to be the other woman. Yet the interest remains, mutual. The surprising thing is that the attraction is more spiritual than anything else. It's like his soul is what's really sexy. After the Fair I met up with my friend and she and grabbed some Mexican before the channeling event. She'd been reading at the Fair all day too and we swapped juicy stories and tidbits, including the hot spot of my conversation with Will. One of the drawbacks of having psychic friends is when you tell them the dirt they often say things like, "You mean you're finally figuring that out now? Honey, the writings been on the wall from the beginning." At the channeling event we both sat in the back row to allow us room to whisper and make inappropriate comments. The whole night was hysterical. Sometimes we were laughing with them, sometimes we were laughing at them. It was $10 very well spent. I came home Saturday night to find a giant inflatable swimming pool in my living room. The House Mate had made some serious backyard purchases earlier in the day. I sat in the empty pool before going to my room and climbing into bed. Tomorrow we'd be swimmers. On Day 2 of the Psychic Fair I didn't do any regular readings. Sunday morning was typically slow and the latter part of my day was spent overseeing areas. Time went by quickly and suddenly it was time to go get ready for the drag show. I drove home to find the House Mate waiting with shish-ka-bobs to barbeque out back by the pool. It was so hot. I tore off my clothes as we hopped into our inflatable pool of water so cold we couldn't sit in it for very long. It's not as if you could swim laps or anything. Brrrrrr. I went inside to make my final decisions on outfits and numbers for the show when I noticed my cactus. One of the members of my little cactus garden had magically bloomed a gigantic bud overnight.

The show was fantastic. Everybody in it seemed to be delivering some of their best work ever. Two of my songs were simple, while the third I had put serious effort into rehearsing. Would it come off right? She shoots, she scores! It's an amazing experience when it all comes together. The applause (and tips) are certainly validating as well. Downside of the night: I did have a couple of cigarettes after the show. Drag + not smoking = more difficult than I would have thought. Sometimes when I do drag I feel like hanging out all night in a frock and clubbing and carrying on. Other times I can't wait to get it all off, get my manly look back together, and head out to go fuck something to cement and demonstrate my masculinity. Last night was one of the latter. I paid a visit to the East Bay Social Club and the place was busy. Sunday nights are good for everyone who really wanted to get laid all weekend and struck out. I changed out of my clothes and put on a towel. As I was headed to the showers I realized I had forgotten to take off my bright red glittery sparkling finger nail polish. Doh! It didn't seem to cramp my style though. I had a few mini/minor distractions, but there was only one guy I had seen so far that I wanted to seriously invest in. It was about that time geekboy showed up. This Latin dweeb grabbed my ass as I walked by and said, "Oh my stars!" to his friend. Whatever. I removed his hand, gave him the "don't squeeze the merchandise without an invitation motherfucker" look and moved on. Awhile later he turns up again, 6 foot, a little chunky, and I successfully escape his cluthes only to find myself cornered by him a couple minutes later when he totally started to force himself on me. I shoved him off and up against a wall so fast it was mind boggling, told him to leave me alone or I'd break his face, and as I was turning to move on he goes and throws a punch at me. Eventually I have the guy pinned down and people show up including geekboy's friend who pulls me off of him. In a matter of seconds I realize that I am being labeled the evil one as the two of them hatch a plan. I tell them that if they'd both just stay the fuck out of my way I'd be happy to leave it at that. They aren't satisfied with that idea though, assholes that they are. Their goal is to see me permanently removed from the club. Now I'm already a step or two ahead of them in seeing where this is going. If anybody's gonna be filing a complaint it's me and I head for the front, the two of them following. Along the way geekboy goes into hiding, but his little friend continues to cloak me. I explain to the management that I'm being stalked agressively and when I tried to get rid of him last time he threw a punch at me. His little friend calls me a liar. And so it begins. How it concludes is that Management is leaning in my direction. They check geekboys registration card and he's already been tagged as a potential troublemaker at the front door. After a considerable search they finally locate geekboy and during that interaction something goes down and his little friend ends up calling a primarily African American staff "a stupid bunch of niggers". Needless to say the police were called and geekboy and his little friend were both escorted from the club in custody, permanently 86'd. Bub bye. As for me, I ended up with a free room pass in addition to the most sincere apologies from practically everybody who worked there. I was impressed actually. While I didn't feel like getting laid anymore, I also didn't really feel like heading outside right away in case the two of them were let off. I wandered back into the club and there he was, the boy I'd been cruising all night, top of my list, staring at me with this come hither look in his eyes. In no time we were back in his room and we were all over each other. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/21/2001 11:20:00 AM ----- BODY:

Shaft strikes back

I rolled into work this morning, although Mondays are my day off, to find a veritable bee-hive of activity. And it seems that everyone missed me so much that they propped a spiderman doll in my chair to simulate me staring at my computer. Only to make it more lifelike, they scotch-taped a cigarette in his mouth. It is so sweet to be missed sometimes! I may never take two days off work again. Between the stack of phone messages, the load of emails, the missing shipments, the drama queen crises, I'm going to be here til midnight. I feel like I don't really do anything at work most of the time, but coming back to this mess makes me realize what it is I actually do; I keep things from spiralling out of control. I guess I'm crisis-prevention central. So there is an upside to being a controlling bitch! Oh but it was worth it to go away! I was dreading dreading dreading going to Cherry Grove this year. I don't know why: I didn't want to see the people, and I hate to be away from New York City so much, and going away on the weekends makes my weekdays even more jam-packed, or something. I fell asleep on the gritty Long Island Rail Road, watching the towers of the city recede to strip malls and Camaros and Cinnabon shops, and I woke up at my stop near the end of the line. Suddenly, the air was colder and saltier and tastier and as I got on the big metal ferry boat I was totally totally amped. For those who haven't been, the uniting decorating motif of Cherry Grove, a town of 275 houses, is Christmas lights, which makes it heavenly enough. There are no roads, only old wooden boardwalks just large enough for two hefty sisters of the loom to pass in the pitchblack night. Two of the housemates and I arrived at our new cottage, which is close to downtown and close to the beach (although there is no far from the beach on a strip of sandbar a few thousand feet wide). Then we proceeded to move every piece of furniture, vacuum every surface, hose down every screen, wash every sheet, and rearrange every drawer. Mmm, delicious! Also, I restrung the de riguer Christmas lights in our giant enormous back yard. I'll make sure I take some pictures on Memorial Day weekend so you get the full deal. I am not a clean person. I am in fact kind of a pig, although I know how to hide my mess so it looks okay for company. I mean, we all have coping skills to get laid, right? But being at the mercy of my superclean household, I just decided to give up and channel my mother on manic binge setting. Before I knew it I was folding sheets and washing windows like it was second nature. I'm pretty sure it won't take though. It's just not me. But cleaning was kind of fun! As I pulled out the house's old towels, strange amber-colored vials filled with powdery substances fell to the floor... and when I begin to re-wire the stereo, a big pipe fell out, still ashy with seeds. Hey! Our house was infested with crackheads! I turned all the substances over to our realtor. "When the DEA comes calling, I don't know nothing, honey," I told him. He looked... confused. I took a little time out to catch some sun, as it was unexpectedly gorgeous all weekend. And of course, it was a whole new crop of people I got to tell about the big breakup. Guess what? In many people's twisted minds, the Xbf and I were "the ideal couple." My friend Jim told me "Your relationship seemed perfect; it was like you were both nuts in a completely compatible way." Oh well. Someone else said, "Wow, you always seemed so happy." "No," I said, "I was always happy. It didn't have anything to do with the relationship." I zipped back into New York on Sunday afternoon. I was actually sad to go. But I had a committee meeting at my house at 5 p.m., so I made the two-hour trip to get back with plenty of time to de-cat my dining room, as someone wanted to come who was allergic to animals. I flew into the house, and did some more cleaning, getting on my hands and knees to wipe down the floors, instead of vacuuming to stir up the dander. I did all that and made a big pot of coffee too. By 5:30, only three people had shown up. I stuffed my feelings of anger and hatred, facilitated the meeting, had everything done in 45 minutes, and kicked the bastards out of my house. I gave up an afternoon on the beach for this? Let's hear it for being of service! Whatever. Fortunately I had taken advantage of being in town Sunday night to schedule a hot date with E.B. I hopped in a cab to Midtown, land of the deadly delis and bad theatre. We sampled the scratchy lottery game fry holders of the Golden Arches. We visited the glamorous anti-septic food court of Times Square. And we booked ourselves in to Amores Perros, which I think I totally hated. Thank god we both have glow in the dark timepieces. What pacing! My god. I should have brought a book. And you know me: any 2+ hour artsy film in a foreign language? I'm SO there. You can convince me any arty foreign film is good. Weeping Mexican women? Usually a shoo-in for me. But this puppy just didn't fly. Pun intended. E.B. caught me up on the world of Blogville. It was a surreal experience to get the news of the world from a person, instead of a computer screen. the minx cruising my date? The Tin Man gets laid? Keithers still won't show us his ass? Brian gets laid and refuses to tell all? Kaycee was a fraud? And you, you've been feeling super funky yeah? Right on, sister!!! As I at long last loaded up the old web page, suddenly the strains of Isaac Hayes began to play from outside my office. Someone had just popped in Shaft. Swear to God. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/19/2001 01:09:00 PM ----- BODY:

Okay sugah, it's a funky weekend, right? Well I'm here to help ya make it even funkier baby! Do you got the funk? I sure do. And I'm here to tell y'all I'm feeling funky today too. I mean I should coast on over to the psychic fair and read some people, but all I really wanna do is crawl over onto my bed and have some extended R and R. I'm jonesing for a day to just chill, lounge on the sofa, pop in Shaft or go rent me some Dolemite. It's a great day for it and let's face it, I'm a sucka for blaxploitation flicks.

Maybe it's a result of growing up in the projects, or maybe it's just that I have a fine appreciation for a variety of bad cinema. I'm all equal opportunity when it comes to exploitation and I'm saying that as one who has been there. As for blaxploitation though I have to say that couple of movies in particular changed my life: Sweet Sweetback's BaadAsssss Song and especially Cleopatra Jones.

I sure do love me some Cleo and the one and only Shelly Winters is amazing as Mommy, the big lesbo crackpot drug lord who is ruining the lives of my brothers and sisters. Too bad for Mommy that Miss Cleo's so bad ass. Speaking of, I need to get my ass over to the psychic fair or it's libel to end up in a sling, and not in a good way, if you know what I mean. I have the Psychic Fair today and a friend and I are going to go see some channelers tonight. Kind of wish I wasn't obligated to do that so I could fetch me some barbeque and hang here at home, but we already bought the tickets. Oh well, it'll be interesting. I gotta jet. May the Funk be with you. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/19/2001 01:32:00 AM ----- BODY:

Do You Wanna Funk?

I'm having some leftover pasta marinara. I'll be having antibiotics for dessert, and maybe some tapioca pudding. I just got home from the grocery store so I actually have some funky food in the funky fridge. Funky. Tonight was my lecture on the ins and outs of buttsex. It was well received, people thanked me. I'm pleased with how everything went, glad we could thrust a little deeper than I thought we were going to be able to go too. Plus there's nothing like teaching others to keep your information fresh and new. I hope you don't mind if I'm doing some Kegels as I continue. All that talk about penetration tonight got me interested in a more up close and personal demonstration. I'm doing a little cruising online right now, fishing from my window as it were. We'll see if anything bites, anything worth reeling in that is. Tonight a few friends of mine unexpectedly showed up at my gig and it was great seeing familiar faces there. They were like, "I heard you were a buttsex guru, but you like really know stuff. Who knew?". Cracked me up. It also reminded me that so much of what I do in my life is in different places with different groups of people that rarely to never connect. Consequently nobody these days really has the full on picture of my life - and yes RJ, the whole anonymity needs to be dealt with. I resolve to do my work on the archives soon. Once those are cleaned up who knows what'll happen. Perhaps I'll have a party. I'll talk to the House Mate and see if he'd be up for it. We've never had a party since I lived here. We are overdue. I could invite friends from work, gigs, drag shows, psychic school, the board, east west... toss in a healthy chunk of the house mate's friends and associates and we'd be guaranteed a very interesting night of people who ordinarily would not mix. While normally I might recoil from such a thought, I'm actually into this one, particularly if we can come up with some sort of a theme to make it even more challenging. Johnny Bravo called to cancel on our date. He has an appointment he forgot about when we made plans. I guess we'll reschedule. It looks like it'll be a little longer until I see that boy. I've been listening to the same couple of songs over and over and over to prepare for the drag show this weekend. I think I have them down. I need to find a couple of props, only I don't know that I'll have time. Hmmm. There sure are a lot of bozos in the chat rooms tonight. Speaking of bozos, RJ and I aren't going to be having an 1100 contest. We'll have another one, but at the moment I don't know when. Y'know, I'm actually sleepy and would head to bed if there wasn't laundry in the dryer. With so little free time this weekend I have to make the most of what I got. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/18/2001 10:43:00 AM ----- BODY:

A Funky Weekend

The Village People recorded a song called Fire Island, big raving homos that they were. One of the first concerts I ever went to was to see the Village People. The first was actually Earth Wind and Fire. Anyways, my brother and I were sitting there watching them sing "Macho Man" and I couldn't help but spend the whole time staring at these guys holding hands all around us, decked out in their leather and levis, big huge cloney moustaches. Little did I know. When the Village People sang of Fire Island it was all about having a funky weekend, though they also delivered one big warning. "Don't go in the bushes". Apparently something might grab ya if you do. I should hope so. I don't think they call that whole stretch of wilderness "The Meatrack" for nothing. Gosh RJ, I can't believe it's already time for you to start your weekend treks out there for the summer. Color me super jealous. I mean I wouldn't mind throwing up on the Long Island Railway if that was the price to pay for a weekend getaway. Hurl on! My weekend's absolutely jammed, though it's most definitely going to get FUNKY, FUNKY, FUNKYTOWN!!! I'll be telling you all about it peoples. Our blog will go on. I mean we will survive. I survived being deprogrammed last night and I actually feel fantastic. Whooo weee - What a Relief! There's probably more to tell, but right now I need to finish this delicious bowl of frosted mini-wheats and haul my ass to work. I'm late. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/18/2001 10:24:00 AM ----- BODY:

The Lay of the Land

Hey boys and girls, RJ and I are trying something a little different with our sidebar links to other blogs. We're in the process of trying out a geographical arrangement to see if we like that better. Trouble is it's not clear where a few of the blogs we are already linking are actually located. Let's face facts here as well that there when we started doing this that too many ended up on the wrong side of the tracks, as it were, hahaha. So I'm actively seeking your Western U.S. recommendations, as well as some more Worldwide webbed big blue marbled bloggage. In conclusion: if you know any of our links are already in the wrong section, if you know of some choice West Coast blogging or a blogger from outside America who is so colorful, so international, and you'd like us to or think we just should be checking you/them out, you're hereby invited to solicit me. Send me some big fat linkage baby. I don't know that we'll be able to handle it all, at least at once, but go ahead and share anyway. It's nice to share. In fact, sharing can make you feel good all day. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/18/2001 09:27:00 AM ----- BODY:

Buh...

Wow, that is really some beautiful macaroni love. I'm so impressed with you all! Okay. I'm leaving town for the weekend in an hour. Work is unfinished. Invoices are unsent. My eyes are strangely puffy and red, and no Visine has seemed to help. My stomach is so-so, for the first time all week. I threw my bag into a cab this morning bound for the office, for a moment of rest and relaxation between hellish home and stressful office, and ended up with the chattiest fucking cab driver. He told me all about the time that he picked up two chicks on 14th Street and drove them to Staten Island, only to have them strip off all their clothes and proceed to do the nasty. He told me about the married guy who he picked up in front of his gay homosexual lover's house and drove him back to Pennsylvania before his wife and kids could wake up. He likes to pick up the gays, BTW, because we're the best tippers. Good evidence. Oh he told me a lot of stories, and it all made me think. Mostly I was thinking, does anyone in New York City ever shut the fuck up? No, I don't either. I know. So I'm chock full of anxiety. I hate being sick and travelling. I always think, what if I drop dead on the Long Island Rail Road? What if I start vomiting blood in a town with no doctor? Plus, the idea of going for a choppy early spring boat ride with an upset stomach is a bit much...Some doctors are starting to theorize, interestingly enough, that panic attacks might occur in people who are sensitive to carbon dioxide levels. A little switch might be getting tripped in us when we don't breathe enough, or when we get ill and our body chemistry changes. I think that's fascinating. Anyway, what I always try to remember with anxiety attacks is that the worst thing I can imagine happening doesn't really matter. I really get into the gruesomeness of dying alone on the side of the highway and then it doesn't seem so bad. I mean, big deal right? I'm totally going to bite it sometime and no matter how psychic my friends are they're not going to pinpoint for me the hour of my death so I guess I'm just going to have to let that one go. I just hope I don't puke all over my New Balance tennies. Well goodbye everyone! Maybe I'll have a phone line and a computer this weekend, maybe I won't! Maybe there'll be electricity, maybe there won't! Maybe I'll be heliported off the island with a long string of my own intestines hanging out my mouth, maybe I won't! So much in life is unknown to us, and isn't that really the heart of the magic of it all? As the Californian cultists say, create a great day for yourselves!!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... Buh bye!!! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/18/2001 02:09:00 AM ----- BODY:

And Called It Macaroni

During our big 10K Rodeo this past weekend we asked our contestants for pictures of macaroni art and we got em. We were so amazed we decided to share just a very small sample of them with you. Bon Appetit.

A tropical paradise I must say.

How can you say no to Bryan's dancing Macaroni?

One of our new favorite readers is Mr. Eddie. He called it Macaporni.

I think this might be straight from the La Brea Tar Pits. ooo. ahhh.

There were many others, but we can only show a few. Our apologies if we didn't show yours. One of our winner's, Casey, sent us a great piece as well as a link for the web page that Ron borrowed the above pic from. I have to say it was funny to download Jason's picture in the midst of our contest. "Hey RJ! It's Jason!" I've known Jason over the years here in SF and he's probably the single greatest Macaroni artist in the history of art made from dried pasta. Check him out by clicking on his picture and don't miss his amazing gallery. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/17/2001 12:51:00 PM ----- BODY:

Contemplation, Separation, Vacation, Capitulation

Last night I went to this dive club to see a friend's band play for the first time. She truly is a powerful vocalist with this amazing Janis Joplin/Tina Turner rock chick voice, only her band sort of sucks. They're holding you back sex kitten. I know, they gave you your big break, you feel you owe the guys, but do we really owe anybody anything? I'm eating a toasted sesame bagel with low fat cream cheese and drinking an iced decaf coffee with vanilla. I'm taking my antibiotics and decongestants. I'm thinking about travel, specifically about purchasing two plane tickets in the very near future. One needs to get me to Detroit at the end of June to rendezvous with RJ and our homies. Vacation, all I ever wanted, Vacation, can't wait to get away. Neither of us have ever been to Detroit y'know. We don't know a soul there either. Anybody in Detroit? Email us cause we're coming to the Motor City. I also want another plane ticket that'll land me in the Big Apple in August for a hopefully extended stay in the city and Cherry Grove. I can't wait to frolic and run naked on the beach on the shores of Fire Island. Totally choice. Johnny Bravo called me back last night. We talked and the more I heard his voice the more I found myself wanting to see him. Perhaps all of this uncertainty and quasi-angst is just another exercise in my own particular unnaturally flavored brand of intimacy issues. Let's see here. What is it that I can focus on to keep "him" from getting too close. A) can you believe those shoes? B) what do you mean you voted for Bush? C) Is that a Kenny G cd in your car? D) Or maybe it's his HIV status. Maybe it's just another focal point in my art of creating space for myself, sometimes a little too well. I'd anticiplate pages and pages of similar dialogue in the future should this relationship blossom at all. Just thought I'd warn you in advance. Johnny and I have a dinner date set for next Wednesday night. I wanted to see him sooner, but my schedule is actually jammed. This evening I'll be spending time at the religious cult that I apparently belong to. The other day I said to someone there, "But don't you think all of this is all just one big religious cult sometimes?" She said, "Even if it is, who says that has to be a bad thing." HAHAHAHA. Hmmm. Good evidence. Hey! I want to sit at the welcome table one of these days. I've scheduled an appointment tonight with one of the psychic school head hoo haas for some deprogramming sessions. We're gonna work together on getting rid of some energy blocks that are keeping me from manifesting what I want out of life. Could this be called brainwashing? All I can say is "Can somebody wash my brain please? It's dirty. As for the rest of my weekend it's another classic exercise from the ole "keep yourself too busy to focus on anything too much" catalog. I hereby revise to actually use my datebook and not commit to anything until I see it on paper. My weekend involves a presentation all about anal sex, two full days at a psychic fair, catching this wacky channeling show with a friend of mine, and on top of all that I have a drag show as well. I'll either be booked or sleeping. Yes, being busy is a good thing, but being busy to the degree that you don't have time to spend with someone you care about, or even to properly regroup and relax - that seems a little problematic. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/17/2001 11:16:00 AM ----- BODY:

We are Spies!

Astrovia sweet comrade your nation is your gun Your love reads like the perfumed note you sent me One last contact in red square Unless I have to run and the long arms of the KGB detect me Blondie

Well I'm so svelte I can't stand it! Like a month ago or something I made some kind of goal to lose most of my winter weight by May 15th; I just didn't plan on doing all of it in one week. Oh well. Man proposes, goddess disposes. It's so nice to have a spiritual life when things get a little freaky. I'm so enthralled with all the secrets of blogdom these days. I had no idea how many people maintained two – or even more! – blogs! Since certain wily pals have been collecting data, and we've compared notes, I feel like I know more secrets than J. Edgar. First it was all the fabulous mysteries of the backroom, then one thing led to another... and you know what I think? I think people want to be found out, or at least found out by those with enough energy to apply themselves. People leave little clues; the length of their hair, who they were with last night, how much smack they shoot... What could be more intriguing than rooting out secret lives on the internet? Wow, this is better than a movie! Please don't feel paranoid people. I only want to know your secrets so that I can know you better. I just want the whole picture. And speaking of the whole picture, aren't you getting a little tired of protecting our anonymity, Flip? I am. Secrets secrets are no fun, secrets secrets hurt someone. I don't think it's time yet, because I have to figure out the full implications of what going public means to my career, my sex life, my friends, and all that. But the one thing I do know is that keeping my life segregated starts to make me crazy. But I'm starting to get the feeling that all this push and pull in my life isn't doing anyone any good, least of all me. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/16/2001 06:30:00 PM ----- BODY:

Bottoms Up and Shooting Blanks

I just finished editing last night's lengthy catch up on dating, doctors, smoking and my health. It's stronger and clearer now if anyone's interested. I'm busy refreshing my knowledge of Dr. Jack Morin's Anal Pleasure and Health for a presentation I'm giving this weekend on all the ins and outs of buttsex. Apparently I'm becoming something of a "buttsex guru", or so says the marketing for the event. Given that kind of status I figured I should brush up on my sphincterology, which has also afforded me the opportunity to finally read Jack's relatively new third edition. The man is after all a patron saint and the book is an absolute must purchase. I'm eating a chinese chicken salad and thinking about Johnny Bravo. I'd like to see him tonight. I'm going to give him a call. The phone is ringing. Ok. Turns out he wasn't even at work today. Isn't it funny when you finally get it together to want to talk to someone and they aren't even there? I mean how dare they! HaHaHa! It's also interesting that the urge to smoke a cigarette has been coming on relatively strong tonight and I have two potential social events tonight to choose from, both of which will place me right smack dab in the middle of the smokers. Should I go to that meeting? Should I go see my friends band at that club tonight? I should go see her play. I promised her a couple weeks ago I'd be there, not to mention the fact that she's been showing up for my life lately. I wouldn't mind taking a date though. Hmm. I wonder what the Swarthy Italian is up to tonight. He even lives nearby. I'm gonna give him a call. Phone is ringing. Ok. No answer. I guess it was worth a shot, right? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/16/2001 05:44:00 PM ----- BODY:

Fork it Over Daddy

Ron's Road Rally page looks like they had fun. What can I say though, I'm a player. I even spent time kicking some serious ass in the Name That Tune contest, 26 instrumental snippets all merged into one 5 minute musical wacko masterpiece. I thought I could name me some songs and win me some prizes. I sent in my big tally, only to have it pointed out that he apparently posted the answers on the site as well. I didn't know, and you know what? I still think I deserve a prize. I scored 45 out of 52 possible and that's some top notch playing, right Ron baby? I'm sure you must have something you wanna give me. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/16/2001 01:16:00 AM ----- BODY:

The Date, The Medication, The Cigarette, Recuperation

Friday night I had my date with Johnny Bravo, a handsome guy I gave the nick name to due to his similarity in appearance to Greg Brady, particularly during that wild and momentary rock star episode. On the Brady Bunch, Greg was surprised and hurt to find out he wasn't chosen for his talent, he was simply selected because he fit the suit. I'm starting to wonder if the owner of my Johnny Bravo moniker isn't taking on these extra layers of episode context. He's easy on the eyes. Nice guy. Dresses well. I think we look good with one another. He was late for our date when he made a mistake in his directions driving over after work and didn't realize he was way off track until he was on the 205 well past Livermore. For those of you not from the Bay Area, Johnny actually left the Bay Area entirely. It's not as if Oakland isn't a rather major point of interest too, right? Johnny's lived here for the past decade so I'm still finding that whole thing a little odd. I guess he just might have a propensity to be a space case, something I know very little about, on certain days at least. What was even more unexpected though was that after our cell phone redirecting conversastion he arrived in truly great spirits. He honestly seemed refreshed, excited to see me. I think I would have been fried after sitting in traffic for a couple of hours and goin well out of my way. Not Johnny Bravo. Johnny can be rather remarkable. We went to Berkeley and grabbed some pollo ensaladas at Baja Fresh prior to seeing Amores Perros at the A.C.T., the Mexican entree and nominee for best Foreign Language Film at the most recent Oscars. It's a rather gritty film that starts to bring to mind a Pedro Almodovar movie, only it's lacking in the kitsch department, fails to exploit the irony humorously. It really isn't until I'd been watching it for an hour that I started to see how brilliant it really is. Not necessarily smart planning for a date to catch a foreign flick whose title translates to "Loves a Bitch", but at least we had a lot to talk about afterwards. We held hands during the movie, though it rarely seemed like it was comfortable. I'm glad we had the opportunity to talk though, about psychic school, his HIV status and health, the kinds of things that are kind of good to get out in the open somewhat early. Things that might preempt another date when disclosed, but actually aren't compromisable so the cards might as well just get played. Afterwards we were back at my place and after a relatively light make out session I invited him to spend the night, only when we were in the sheets I got the message that it wasn't going to be a night of any major action. He was clear that the kissing, frottage, foreplay was as far as he wanted to go. I was okay with that. I don't want to do anything with someone if they aren't comfortable so it ended up pretty much being an undies on experience. Let's not forget that I was also still freshly on antibiotics beginning my recovery from this acute sinus and ear infection. I did jack off though. I told him there was no way I'd get any sleep out of sexual frustration if I didn't, so I did. I don't think I slept very much at all anyway, probably due to my high strung decongestants, not to mention that nobody has spent the night with me since the Closet Case Boyfriend and I went out separate ways months and months ago. I'm not sure Johnny Bravo and I sleep well together. I'm not sure he even fits the suit. He called me the following day to thank me for a great time and hoped we could see each other again soon. I had a good time myself, though something wasn't quite right. I still haven't called him back and I suppose some of it is that I'm still not feeling entirely well physically. His health, however, and the whole HIV issue is a bigger piece of the problem. I was talking to Hippie Chick about it today at work and she really understood me when I said, "Y'know, if HIV wasn't something that basically surrounds my work life on a daily basis, something I already sort of live and breathe throughout the week as it is, I don't know that our mixed status would be a very big deal. But with things the way they are in my life with work and my friends who are infected, I pretty much want to get away from all that when I'm with the object of my affection. I'm sure some of it is just the same way receptionists probably hate answering the phone at home, pizzamakers don't feel like making or eating pizza, only there's a more loaded emotional response factor. Still, I'm unwilling to make that be reason enough not to see him. He's really a nice guy. I think I'll go out with him again soon and just see how it feels. I just don't know that I can hang with it all when it comes right down to it. Sometime on Saturday I ran out of cigarettes, but I was so tired and really not feeling up to leaving the house that I never ventured out to get any. Before I knew it time had passed. I'm now about halfway through my fourth day without a smoke and I'm doing pretty good. I have had a few momentary strong cravings that have gratefully passed. I'm still not entirely sure I've quit, although I did purchase some extra whitening toothpaste and I am looking forward to having a dazzling smile, particularly after spending so much time and money in the chair. C'mon, you all want a great smile too, don't ya? Not a whole lot happened worth noting on Saturday or Sunday other than our big 10K rodeo contest here at East West. There was medication, plenty of fluids, occasional naps. I tried to rest more, but it just wasn't happening with these decongestants. Somewhere along the way I made a deal with myself. I wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't doing anything. I was just going to take care of myself, no psychic school, nothin, and I pretty much stuck to it and you know what? Something unexpected started to happen. I started feeling better. I'm still not full on well yet, but I'm on my way and with the return of my health came the return of my desire to live life head on, starting with taking care of my sex drive. After not having sex for a month, even with Johnny Bravo spending the night, I placed some prioritization in getting laid. I looked around online for awhile this weekend to no avail. I did chat for quite awhile with this guy who really wants to meet me. We have a few key things in common, but there's something off about him too. I can just tell. I like the fact that he's a musician, though I want to hear what kind of music he plays too. Maybe I'll talk to him again. Monday at work I was creeping along. Got some things finished, only slowly. Went to psychic school and did my volunteer shift. Monday night I went to this lecture on quantum physics I wanted to check out. I'm not a scientist or anything, but I have this interest in how it all works, everything. I sat there and tried to look at the whole thing psychically and it really started to make sense to me, that is until my brain decided it was gonna blow a gasket from overstimulation. My solution? Stimulate the body instead. I ventured over to the East Bay Social Club for some up close and personal rest and relaxation. Steamroom. Jacuzzi. Scorecard: 3. young blonde total babe, an extremely well hung black muscle daddy, and a goodlookin late twentysomething frat boy bottom guy. All in all I'd say I made up for lost time. Today I really started to feel like myself again. My ear has been popping all day, teasing that one day the pressure may actually leave and I'll be free to do things again like hear properly. It's been going on for so long I've gotten use to it being this way, so I'm applauding the fact that my medication is working and that when all of this is over I may end up being in a better spot than before it began. That spring in my step is coming back, along with that certain shimmy. People at the office say, "You look like you're starting to act like yourself again." I personally see myself as still being right in the middle of some pretty heavy recuperation. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/15/2001 11:25:00 AM ----- BODY:

What's up, Tigerlily?

Wow! That was a totally excellent contest people. First, I'd like to send out a big thanks to all who entered. Here at E/W there are no losers, honest, just like there are no stupid questions, no really, and y'all get our respect, thanks, and undying devotion. Second, I'd like to send a big shot out to our M.C. and host, Mr. Flip City. While I was in bed with food poisoning all weekend, he kept the action going on behalf of our blog. Thanks baby! Don't know what I'd do without you, kitten! Can we hear it for the host with the most? You rock the mic! Send him your love, people! Well, I'm pretty much back from the near dead, the somewhat dead, the wishing I was dead. Like Keith, I'm a little more svelte and a little more bitter. In case you'd like the gory details, that was the last time I have an egg salad sandwich for quite a while. It's going to be an egg- and mayo-free summer for me! Oh who am I kidding? I can't get off that horse. I'm totally strung out on egg salad. Anyway, I just wanted to pop my head back into the blog, say a big congratulations to our winners and all our entrants, a huge thanks to Flip, the hardest working man in show business, and a welcome back to me. I'd also like to send a shot out to my very own 10K Mr. Congeniality; it should be noted that we only accept answers "in English," which I suppose we should incorporate into the rules. Anyway, I'm glad I'm on the mend here, because I have (as usual) an insane week ahead; psychosis at work, dates I'm not looking forward to, dates I'm really really looking forward to, and I'm skipping out of work early this week to open up the beach house that I share with my cracked-out friends. Mmmm, crack... I mean, mmmm, beach.... -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/15/2001 02:56:00 AM ----- BODY:

Alrighty then! Who is the most rootin tootin cowboy in Blogville? Who is the man who can ride a buckin bronco like nobody else's business? Whose the fastest gunslinger in these here parts with the gosh darn best aim? I'm gonna tell ya, but first little Billy has a trick he wants to show ya.

Wow! Ain't he somethin? And so are all of our contestants in the big 10K Rodeo Roundup! You're all the best. Give yourselves a round of applause! The actual scoring process was rather complicated. A question was thrown out because we didn't feel we worded it well, though someone came in with the correct answer anyway. Time was calculated along with credit for partial answers. Points were transcribed and restranscribed. All of our data was effectively analyzed and when all was said and done we found ourselves with a tie for first place. After going over everything several times we decided to go ahead and give away two 10K Wild Wild West Prize Packages to two very deserving cowpokes. Our first place winners are: Bryan from Time Is The Enemy Casey from Ultramundane and You'll Dance To Anything Congratulations! In second place we have another tie, can you believe it? And both of them are previous winners here at East West as well. YeeHaa! Let's here for our second place prize winners: Bill at Mermaniac Ron from Leather Egg And in third place, walking away with the highly coveted East West Soundtrack 1.0 it's our very own official East Coast/West Coast blog boy whose site is finally up and online for all of you to enjoy. Yay Brian! Be sure and drop by and give him love. Brian at Outage Thank you to everybody who played. It was a lot of fun and we truly appreciate all of your support over our first 10,0000 here at East West. If anyone would like a copy of the answer key just let us know and we'll send it to ya. Stay tuned and we'll start getting caught up on our lives, as well as probably present some of our favorites from the macaroni art entrees!! We love them!!

-------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/14/2001 02:22:00 PM ----- BODY:

Yeeeeeha!!! Our 10K rodeo rages on and while we've certainly seen some incredible riders in the early preliminaries, I'm not sure any of our current entrees can truly ride this bull to victory. If you haven't already tossed your cowboy hat in the ring there's still plenty of time. We're closing this here free sex and more rodeo at Midnight (West Coast Time), providing we don't see someone ride in on a wild stallion with the complete correct entry to all 20 tasks or questions. If that happens we'll stop the show and crown that amazingly sexy star the10K King or Queen of the Rodeo!!! We'll also broadcast our 2nd and 3rd place winners as well. So, ya little whippersnappers, get snappin baby cause our big 10K Super Wild Wild West Prize Package could be all yours for the taking!!!

Contest details explained below. Just keep right on reading. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/13/2001 11:13:00 AM ----- BODY:

We sure are mighty sorry. Blogger's been down since the crack of dawn this Sunday morning and there hasn't been a gosh darn thing we could do about it. No Blogger, nothing new on our site. It's that simple. I tell ya, I've been as anxious as a cow at a steakhouse. All day long I've been here by the computer waiting for that magic moment when Blogger would fix itself. This is that magic moment (10:12 pm West Coast Time). Things be a-working again and we're back online! I'd like to send a shout out to my Mom for Mothers Day. Hi Mom! Love ya Mom! Thank you everyone for all your patience today. I can't believe how many of you have been through and come back and come back. Here we go. Without any further ado, let this here contest begin!!! Find your cowboy hat. Get in the saddle. Hum a little tune by Dolly or Waylon. It's time to ride your way to a Big Longhorn 10K Grand Prize Package of a lifetime! First rider through the gates of our corral with the most correct answers takes first place, with second and third place prizes rolling along in that obvious order. (Official prizes and rules described in detail below). Are you ready pardners?

On your mark, get set, GO!!!!!! 1. Flip and RJ met at a protest rally. What exactly were we protesting? 2. Name three cities that at least one of us has traveled to (New York and the Bay Area Excluded). 3. A non-blogger called Mr. "Fortune 500" won our Mr./Ms. 500 Contest. Being a New Yorker he hooked up with RJ. What Manhattan neighborhood did the two of them have dinner in? 4. A blogger also known as Frank Green was the studly Mr./Ms. 1000. Where is Frank going to be on vacation in a few weeks? 5. Now it's time for a Real Western Question. What are two of the rules of the Roy Rogers Riders Club?

6. Miss Texas won our 2000 contest. What was her alleged reason for turning down our sexual favors? 7. Ron at Leatheregg declared himself Mr. 2500 and we lovingly gave him the title, prizes and all the glory. According to Leatheregg give us one of his "Oz Prison Bitch Names". 8. Two people won our 3000 Contest, the first of which was Keithers. How much weight did Keith lose in 48 hours from food poisoning? 9. Our second Mr. 3000 winner was 8 legged DJ. For his prize package he passed on the free sex, but did ask for a coffee date and an East West Soundtrack. When they met 8 Legged DJ gave Flip something? What was it? 10. Now it's time to head deeper into the Ponderosa. In Season 6 of the tv show Bonanza, Little Joe entered Hoss in a contest involving food. What type of food was it?

11. Flip hooked up with Mr. Anonymous and it's something some of us won't be forgetting anytime soon. On the night of his 4000 prize package, what brand of lube did he have on his bedside table? 12. Our other 4000 winner was fellow Oakland blogger Bill from Mermaniac. Bill received an autographed photo of someone the same day he and Flip hooked up for his night of prizes. Who was the autographed photo of and what did it say? 13. There was only one 5000 winner, Steve at Slap My Ass. What was the name of his boy-band-singer related previous site layout? 14. The 6000 contest went in two separate directions. Jeff at Tin Man won the title of Mr. 6000 East. What did Jeff (allegedly) score on his straightacting.com test?

15. Tim from Psionic won the prize as Mr. 6000 West. What is the name of the big local gay gossip columnist in the town where Tim lives? 16. In some of the contests RJ and Flip were to post pictures of selected body parts on their blog. What four body parts made an appearance and who did each of them belong to? 17. Mr. 7500 still awaits his big pizza delivery with the works. Name one of Dan from Jersey City's favorite pizza places in New Haven. 18. In our most recent contest Blogstalker won the 9000 prize package and then some. Name an item from the Blogstalker's checklist for his date with RJ.

19. One of our favorite foods is Macaroni. One of our favorite things is art. Combine the two and include with your email a picture of Art made with Macaroni. 20. Which individual had such a profound impact upon Flip and RJ that they are not only regarded as a Saint by them, they also are in Heavy Rotation.

For Easy Mail Access Click on The Lone Ranger and Tonto Below The 10K Prize Package: In the tradition of East Coast West Coast we are once again offering ourselves up on a hot sexual non-barbequed platter for an incredibly delicious evening of hot tasty finger lickin good sex with Flip or RJ!!! Yes Gents and Ladies, we've done it before and we're doing it again!!! A life changing orgasmic ride of a lifetime awaits, yours for the taking should you be the first one with the most correct answers in our 10K Rodeo Spectacular!! Mmmmm. That's right. First Place Wins: 1. A Giddyup Wild Ride of Buckin Bronco Out of Control Free and Crazy Sex 2. RJ's Special Secret Super Tasty Smore Recipe 3. The East West 10K Rodeo Country Western Classics CD Compilation 4. The One and Only East Coast/West Coast Soundtrack 1.0 5. The Envy of All Your Family and Friends 6. Your Very Own Super Place in the East West Winners Circle That's right, RJ's famous S'mores recipe for a tasty and delicious treat when you and your buddies are gathered around the campfire. And TWO incredible cds! Our country western collection will always take you back to this very special time riding your 10K trail to Glory, with the highly coveted East West Soundtrack 1.0 as well! These cds are not sold in stores, you can only recieve it at this time as part of this very special contest prize package. Second place will receive our special Country Western Classics cd and RJ's famous smore recipe. Third place will receive the East Coast West Coast Soundtrack 1.0. The Rules: 1) You must be a living breathing human being. Sorry, no exceptions. 2) First person to complete all twenty questions/tasks correctly wins and we will announce the winner. However, the contest time limit goes until Midnight on Monday. Once the deadline hits the first person that sent in the most correct answers will be declared the winner. 2nd and 3rd prizes follow in line. 3) Thank you to those of you who sent screen shots at 10,000. But once again - this is not a site counter specific contest. This is open to anyone, regardless of what number you wandered through the barn door at. Previous winners ARE eligible for the big 10K package too. The Lone Ranger's Creed: I believe that to have a friend, a man must be one. That all men are created equal and that everyone has within himself the power to make this a better world. That God put the firewood there, but that every man must gather and light it himself. In being prepared physically, mentally, and morally to fight when necessary for that which is right. That a man should make the most of what equipment he has. That "this government, of the people, by the people, and for the people," shall live always. That men should live by the rule of what is best for the greatest number. That sooner or later...somewhere...somehow...we must settle with the world and make payment for what we have taken. That all things change, but the truth, and the truth alone lives on forever. I believe in my Creator, my country, my fellow man. Click on the Lone Ranger and Tonto Below To Send In Your Entry

THE FINE PRINT: Offer void to anyone who honestly owns spurs. Again: all offers are subject to acts of God. This is neither "a game of chance", nor prostitution and violates no laws in spirit or letter. I know, let's smoke peace pipe. Let's have some chili. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/13/2001 12:45:00 AM ----- BODY:

Giddy Up! Y'all didn't think we were just going to raffle ourselves off for our big 10,000th visitor, did ya? Y'all don't think we're fixin to give it up for another cowboy or cowgirl on this here World Wide Web just cuz our site counter says 10K, now do ya? We're far more grateful than that. In such a very short time y'all have been so mighty good to us that we're throwing something extra special this time. Thanks a heap to each and every one of ya for 10,000 big smackeroos. We mean that, really we do. We're totally amazed in that Sally Field kind of way, but we digress. This contest ain't like the others we've had. Instead, we've fashioned a round-up of extremely important and totally useless information featuring our previous contest winners in the winner's circle to your left, our very sexy and hard riding east west hosts ourselves, and we'll also be tossing in an extra helping of completely random items straight from the ponderosa. It's a game pardner! The big East Coast West Coast 10K winner will be she or he (or she-he or he-she) who gets the most answers right, plain and simple! It all plays like a western "Who wants to be a Millionaire" - it starts off easy and gets harder too. Don't worry, it'll get soft again. Hey! That sounds dirty, cowboy! Okay, kiddies, wranglers, cow chickies, cowpokes... Get yourself ready to gallup off on a wild ride across the internet in search of not only World Wide Fame and Glory, you'll also receive a Barn Full of Rootin Tootin Prizes!!!!! Some of you frequent blog readers may be able to polish this off, that is if you're not brain damaged from all your long nights drinking white lightenin on the range!!! Brush out your manes people! And even if this is your very first visit it won't be such rough riding that you couldn't ride that buckin bronco right on to victory. Saddle up! You will ride when the clock strikes 10,000!!! Note: All previous winners are once again eligible. Good luck Pardners and Thanks Again for making East Coast/West Coast your stop along the way. Happy Trails to each and everyone. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/12/2001 08:12:00 PM ----- BODY:

What would the community think?

My God what would the community think, You are so beautiful, you are so beautiful. All the things that people do in winter, They all melt down in summer, Things a mirror should say, On a very hot day... --Chan Marshall

I just flew in from Chelsea, and boy are my arms tired! It's so nice to be back here in the East Village, where the men are pretty, the women are burly, and the food is incredibly gas-producing. It is such a fantastically glorious week here, both in the fabulous weather, and in my kooky mind. In fact, this entire week I've felt... I dunno, reborn or something, but without the Baptist overtones, ya know? And tonight was that special thing: a muggy hateful barometric day that finally broke open and poured down rain. Now a cool wind is whipping through my apartment as I type this, shirtless and smoking. But this morning I woke up and thought, wow, I'm going to vomit! Every night I've gotten an hour less sleep than the night before. Today I was a rickety old man, well, rickety in that bloated, nauseated kind of way. I scooped up some clothes from the floor and headed into the office, where I promptly began watching the clock. Wow, 11:20. Wow, 11:30. And so on and so forth. For SEVEN FUCKING HOURS. But I had at least a good excuse for staying up last night. I'm really starting to groove on this dating thing. Last night's date was with, well, the Blogstalker. Honestly, I was going to give him an alias, such as Teddy the Wonder Puppet, or Chucky the Killer Doll. I feel kind of guilty having gone on a second date with a contest winner. But honestly, he's just so fucking cute. He's a perfect date; funny, charming, emotionally available, nice to waitrons, mean to those nasty queens who always seem to sit near you in a crowded restaurant in the East Village... And he puts out on the second date, too! In remarkable and rather spell-binding fashion, in fact... This marks the first time I feel kind of dirty telling all on this blog. I feel odd disclosing this, which doesn't make any sense, and you know me. Anal warts? Blog about it. Long demeaning night at a sex club? Blog about it! Insulting emails from your Xboyfriend? Share it with the world, hell! So I guess I've just double-dog-dared myself to blog it all. I like this being single thing! Why didn't anyone tell me it was so great out in singleland? Marriage is for, like, retards or something. What was I thinking? I love going on dates, I love coming home when I want, I'm liking going to parties and even bars. And you know what? Something's changed in me. I never used to get cruised on the street. On Thursday, walking home across town, I could have gotten laid at least a couple of times. It was eerie. I guess my sexual self-esteem is back (it's had a little help from my recent dates, so I suppose I owe a debt of gratitude). I suppose I just kept hearing that voice in my head: a single woman over 30 has a greater chance of dying in a plane crash than getting married. And I don't even fly! I guess I'm in love with love. With the Gonzalez-Torres perfection of two empty plastic bottles of Diet Coke on my kitchen counter. I'm in love with smoking, and car alarms, and sunglasses, and sweat, and imperfection. I'm in love with self-absorption and His Name Is Alive and ambulances and kittie cats! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/11/2001 06:40:00 PM ----- BODY:

Doctor's Orders

Mmmmm. Medication. Augmentin. What else? Tasty and Delicious Guaifenesin and Guaifen-PSE. Pretty cool, huh? From the looks of it, I'm apparently not a well man!

Yesterday work was a little hellacious. Another major grant on my plate to contend with and I still needed to get out of there and go see my Doctor in the middle of the day. I escaped and it was so nice to be outside. The weather was spectacular! I'd much rather be driving around with my sunroof open listening to Swans (Children of God) than sitting at my desk pontificating to potential funders.

Before seeing my Doctor I popped a few Smints and drank some water to hopefully free myself of any evidence of cigarettes, as well as yet another lecture. It apparently worked. I told him my tales of woe and he checked me out. He's the best actually. My doctor's gay and we get along famously, even if the only time I see him is when I'm at my worst. Once he even got rid of a couple small moles on my neck for free just "for the sake of appearances honey." It was good to see him. So, what exactly is wrong with me anyway?

Acute ear infection in my left ear. Want to know more about ear infections? Click on the pic above. If you're not clicking our pics you're missing out on the whole east west experience. I also have an acute sinus infection. There's some throat irritation, possibly just from drainage, possibly strep, maybe gonnorhea. They took some cultures and boy do I ever feel cultural. Apparently the cold I had a few weeks ago never left and the nasty little bacteria settled in for the long haul and have taken over. We're talking seriously set up camp. This antibiotic is supposed to be pretty severe. Even the pharmacist was like, "Wow, have you taken this type before? Hope you can handle it." Luckily I've been known to handle a lot.

I was supposed to head straight home after my appointment, but I didn't. I went back to the office and placed the grant in as good of a shape as I could before heading out to come home and crash. Now I'm supposedly resting and recuperating while I wait for modern medicine to fix me. These massive decongestants make me so speedy though I've been running around like a fuckin tweaker. I'm in the middle of my second of three loads of laundry. I've organized my cds and virtually everything in my room. I'm even going through my dresser drawers. Get the picture? Even if I don't get well at least my room's gonna be lip smackin clean and that's good because I have date tonight. It's my first real date with Johnny Bravo since our make out session on the street last weekend. It's always good to have clean sheets on the bed, just in case.

The House Mate has the day off and we're making Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. I think we're going to prop ourselves up and spend the rest of the afternoon watching daytime television, that is if I can steer him away from Christopher Lowell. I may not be well, but others in this house aren't well either. Ahem. You know, for someone who is sick though, I really don't feel that sick. I can't hear shit out of my left ear and I'm stuck in a strangely incorrect pressure system, but I'm relatively ok considering. It's time for television. Even under the weather, life is good. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/11/2001 12:12:00 AM ----- BODY:

In which my mother is right again

This has been an incredible day. Xanadu set me off this morning, and thank you for that Flip. I can feel the spiritual energy in the air, and that's about as close as I get to sounding like a California Guy. Today just rocked. I can feel the sexual and emotional vibes all over New York City. You know what that feeling is? It's freedom from fear. I've peeled myself out of the painting and into my life. So, my Olivia Newton-John, my psychic lady, you saw hamburgers on my date with Blogstalker? Well, he reveals a little more, okay, a LOT more, here, which I'm not going to deal with right now because it makes me actually blush, and you can imagine how often THAT happens. But he's wrong about the hamburgers. After wracking my brain about that piece of information, I finally recalled that we did indeed talk about hamburgers. And not the Hamburgler either, turdburgler. So you get mega bonus psychic points. I'm glad you brought it up, because I love this story I'm about to tell. It reminds me that the person I used to be might as well be, well, someone else entirely... Also it involves my mother, and don't forget Mother's Day is Sunday. I fedexed my momma a package tonight. I burned her a bunch of CDs that I thought she'd like to play as she zips around Oakland in her still new-ish car. But my story. Picture it: Oakland, 1993. Okay, maybe 1994. I'm fuzzy on dates, ya know? Before I moved to New York City, I had a New York City boyfriend. Let's call him Jason. Why not? That's his real name, after all. Jason was a very New York boy. He was a white soul DJ. He was six foot, handsome with a big schnoz. He was a well-hung Irish fellow. He had developed a crush on me on my Spring trip to New York, and I on him. He came to San Francisco to see me a couple of times. One lovely Oakland afternoon, he came over to visit my mother. We spent a gorgeous day in her backyard, throwing a ball for her dog, drinking lemonade and having some sort of lesbian snacks, who knows what. My mom eats weird. Jason was on his best parental behavior, which is always a bad idea with my mom. Ma wants you to let it all hang out; she just don't trust people who put on an act. She figures you have something to hide. And I wasn't that invested in him myself. I guess in my mind, it was easier to pick up and move across the country with a boyfriend than without. Hmm, that speaks volumes about my own self-centered shallowness. So we had a lovely carefree time. But near the end, my mother pulled me into the pantry while Jason was outside. "You know," she said, in kind of a lesbian therapist stage whisper, "physically abusive boyfriends don't start off just hitting you. They start with controlling what you wear. Then it's how often you see your friends. Then it's what time you come home.. Then POW, next thing you know you've got a black eye." "Oh mom, I know," I said, with that kind of exasperation only a 22-year-old who is about to move to New York City for the first time can muster up to his mother: his mother, of all people, who's seen things and done things he can never dream of. "Okay," she said. "I'm glad you know." We carried on with our afternoon, and that summer I moved to New York City. The Big Apple. Smell the poverty, deep in the East Village. I ate my $1.95 breakfast every morning at the diner on the corner. I read important and life-changing books. I went to bars and parties and was generally young and cute and witty. Jason was a pretty good boyfriend. He paid for cabs. He introduced me to the joys of watching TV. We went out for dinners, and he introduced me to his friends, who were film producers, or toy company executives, or perfume counter salespeople. Some were actors, scheming about putting on their first big one man/woman shows. I say it all the time: Was anyone ever so young? Thunderclouds came. Jason was invested in monogamy. Well, I was fresh out of San Francisco, where we fucked for the revolution. I didn't do monogamy. That was for the straight people. And furthermore, hello, I had just moved to New York, where all sorts of hot new guys were absolutely thronging the streets. You know how it is here, on a sweltering afternoon downtown, it's like being in a Village People sandwich! Except sexy! One night that Fall, we were out for dinner at Stingy Lulu's, where drag queens drink for free. I settled down with a cigarette and ordered a hamburger. Yes, I'm sure you were waiting for me to get to the hamburger part, weren't ya! "Oh God," said Jason. "You don't need a hamburger." I looked at him askance. "What?" I said. "I don't?" "No, no, you need something healthy like broccoli. You smoke all the time, you eat like crap, you're going to order some vegetables." The waiter sashayed over to the table and took our order. "I'll have the lasagna and my friend will have the vegetable plate," Jason said to the queeny waiter, before I could even open my mouth. Oh my lord in butter, I thought. That's exactly what my mother was talking about! Next thing you know he'll have me tied to a chair in the corner, and not in that sexy way! I mean, look what happened to Hedda Nussbaum! He'll make me wear his evil brand on my flesh and he'll make me eat fucking vegetables all the time! So I left the restaurant, and Jason and I never spoke again. Not long after, I found out that while we were together, Mr. Monogamy did a photo session for Inches. It wasn't that great a spread. They really foreshortened his penis. Oh, and it's not quite true that we never spoke again. I ran into him where he worked at another East Village restaurant, two or three years later. I was with the XBoyFriend then. It was Jason's birthday, and he was entertaining friends at the bar, while bartending. Now that's class. He charitably asked after the status of my relationship. "We're going to actually get married soon!" I said, just because it was his birthday and I thought it would hurt him. It did. That may have been mean of me, but my mother would have laughed hysterically. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/10/2001 12:49:00 AM ----- BODY:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree Where Alph the sacred river ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

What does it all mean? It somewhat reminds me of the two posts by RJ and Mr. 9000/blogstalker regarding the events that transpired on their "date" last night. In other words, I haven't a clue. For those of you just tuning in right now Mr. blogstalker was the big winner of our Mr. or Ms. 9000 Panty Raid contest and RJ went on a pantie run last night to give the guy the goods: his night of delicious free sex, a pair of his very own actual previously worn undies, and a copy of our highly coveted and not available in stores East West Soundtrack 1.0. I don't know about the rest of you, but their accounts of the evening are too vague and clouded for me. It seems they've conspired to keep the details more or less to themselves, but I'm a psychic. I've been in psychic school for the past year and a half, right?. I think it's time to shed some light on what actually took place. Here we go. The first thing I get loud and clear is what looks like hamburgers for dinner someplace. They met at that building, were immediately caught off guard by the intrigue of it all, they walked and talked and giggled and got dinner. Hamburgers. At the restaurant (though I can't see where they are at all) the conversation continued. I think it was going as well as one of these things could possibly go. That's when RJ "realized" he forgot the soundtrack at his apartment and they went there to pick it up. Looks deliberate to me. This is where it gets a little awkward, where reality set in for them. Like, A-Ha! We don't know eachother and we're about to have sex thanks to the wonderful world of blogging! Instead they drank tea and played with the cats. Looks like the Scribbler (RJ's roommate) got into the conversation. He was the one speaking about sealing human bodies in plastic. Hmm. Looks sexual for him. Some sort of restraint, ah, bondage. At this point RJ and Blogstalker excused themselves and made their way to RJ's bedroom. I don't really want to look at this part much, but I'll check it out only to tell you all what I can see. Ok. Yes, RJ most definitely consummated an incredible East West 9000 Panty Raid Prize Package right in his very own home. Hot, sexy, graphic, funny. Looks like they laughed a lot. It was fun. There was, however, a very high snot factor. A cold. They both had colds? Someone had a cold. It made the sex somewhat less than skyrockets. It rocked but he didn't spend the night. Looks to me like RJ gave him the soundtrack. He might have forgotten the undies though. In any case - they're looking to create a sequel ladies and gentlemen. But enough about them, let's talk about me.

You know how in the beginning of the movie the muses pop out of the wall and all come to life to the music of ELO? Well that's not how I feel right now. I feel like I'm stuck in the painting. I've actually been dealing with some lousy sinus, sore throat stuff for a couple of weeks now. Part of me thinks it's allergies. Part of me thinks it's viral. Whatever it is it's one reason to see a Doctor. The other is that I have this spider bite or ingrown hair or something between my navel and my pubic hair and the damn thing just isn't healing. It's been two weeks. It's kind of painful. Both of these things have varied in severity, like when I really think "It's time to get that looked at" they start to chill. But enough is enough. I have an appointment with my Doctor for tomorrow afternoon. This is good because I just haven't felt like myself lately. Life has seemed two dimensional, like part of me is encased in concrete, or at least my head feels that way, not to mention that I haven't felt like working out or having sex as a result... Which reminds me. If this does turn out to be viral I hope I didn't giveJohnny Bravo my cold on Saturday night when we were making out in my car. I mean we have our first date coming up this weekend.

That is something that is very cool right now. Johnny Bravo. I mean that's the part of it all that makes me feel like I've managed to escape from a brightly colored neon painting on a dead end street and I'm free to rollerskate my way into fate and living large. Truth is part of me feels like a muse. I'm really excited about how East West has touched people's lives, how we're able to play a part in inspiring others. Thanks for the mail peoples. I don't just mean touching lives in the handjob sense, but in the greater bigger picture of reality, like our blog boy Brian getting back online soon and ready to roll. He should be having his "grand opening" any day now. I like that I've been able to muse him up. I also received the greatest email day from someone who is something of a muse for me. I totally dig her new redesign too. Check her out. Y'know, I think when it comes right down to it we really can all be muses for one another, right?

I really have little interest these days in having anyone within the inner circle that I call my life who isn't actively engaged in my mutual inspiration society. I definitely have had my history of surrounding myself with those in need and consequently I ended up feeling valuable. See, he/she/they needed me. But it's so easy to hide within that dynamic where I can be with people 24/7, helping them out around the clock, but am I sharing the real deal with them on my life or am I hiding in plain sight? Am I present and accounted for or entirely distracted by your private life drama? Am I paying attention? Several years ago I had plenty of people who could call me at 4 in the morning, but did I have my own personal support set when I was in need of aid? I'm glad I do today. I most certainly do. I hope you do as well.

I want to draw and paint and blog and sing and dance and be creative these days. Something I feel I've gained out of blogging is that I'm becoming more and more aware of how valuable having an outlet is for me. Often times when I'm writing things just take place and happen that are not what I had planned at all. Like this post. Like writing about this. It all started with an idea and it's turning into something different. Who knows where I'll end up. And through the process of it all I end up learning more about myself. For all we do on East West with our high octane contests, free sex giveaways, and our regular rants and raves, I can honestly say that we're two of the most sincere people you'd ever hope to meet. We may not be like anybody else, but then we're not supposed to be. It's about being true to ourselves and I must say that we're having a blast doing it baby. I hope you are too.

It all makes me wonder where the road ahead is leading. I've been at my job now for more than five years and every day I show up there and every day I feel just a little more bored by it all. I want to be doing something more creative, but for years I was invalidated for wanting to do so. "You can't support yourself as a writer, are you crazy?" "Yeah, I think you're funny, funny looking! Hahaha". As a result I ended up choosing a career path that was probably the most important to me that I could find for not doing what I really wanted to do at all. Now I'm a little stuck. If I didn't have such a great group of people around me I would have walked a long time ago. Part of the reason I stay at my job is because it's one place I really feel like I belong, and that's important to me. Belonging. They see it all at work and it's all a valued package. The more one lives their life and is true to themselves, the more often we might end up doing things that aren't quite the norm. The more we are ourselves, the less we'll be like anybody else. The less we are like anybody else, the less attractive we might be to those who can't be true to themselves. It's threatening to see people live their lives if you're not. It also holds true that the less we are like anybody else the more attractive we'll be to those who want to do so themselves and who wish and can and are.

It's strange when your perception of who you are is based in a different time period than the one you are actually living in. When I was at the psychic conference a couple weekends ago I saw this lady wander into In N Out Burger. She had the most amazing hair. We all turned and stared at her. Was that huge thing a wig? It was this giant feathered layered bouncing and behaving hairdo that really had no serious business being on a 40 year old woman in a burger joint in 2001. I saw it clearly though. She was validated for having very pretty hair in high school. She might even be posted in her annual under "Prettiest Hair". Consequently she hadn't changed her look since. She got stuck on that validation and she was fearful of changing it cause she was afraid it might be lost if she did. While I've changed my look countless times externally, it's the internal pictures that have been validated by others where I get stuck sometimes. Like all those people validating me for helping them and healing them, when I really need my energy in my own life making my own dreams come true. Sure, I might lose their validation, but I'll have my life back. Another example could be my upcoming date with Johnny Bravo Friday night. He looks like someone who is from an income bracket that exceeds my own. There's still a small part of me that gets lit up about that. I end up feeling like maybe I don't belong on a date with someone "like that", based on a picture of myself that isn't even relative to who or where I am today at all. I think it's time to recover from the aftermath, particularly since so much of it ended over a decade ago now, and bring my life entirely into present time. If only it was that simple, right?

Sometimes things are removed from our lives because they're standing in our way. I think about that sometimes in terms of relationships. A long time ago I knew this old queen named Robert. I was 22 at the time and crying to him about somebody not wanting to go out with me anymore and he gave me some excellent advice. He said, "You know what Flip, if you met Mr. Right today you wouldn't know what to do with him. But I bet you're one step closer as a result of having spent the past two months with Wes. Every man I've ever dated has taught me something. You see, my Mr. Right is affectionate, handsome, rich, and a whole lot more. My past relationship with Bill taught me to be comfortable with someone's physical affection for the first time. Another ex of mine named Tom taught me that someone who is more attractive than me could still find me attractive. I sort of ruined that one with my insecurity at the time, but I learned a big lesson along the way. As for my relationship with John he taught me it was okay that someone had more money than me. That I was still worth dating. You see Flip, every man I've ever been with has taught me something to prepare me for what is to come. When Mr. Right arrives I'm going to be so good and ready." God bless you Robert. I can still see you in your poncho with your coffee cup, pulling out your sparkly red high heeled pumps on your birthday. You were a huge and amazing muse for me. The fact is had it not been for your total love without any strings attached in my young gay life I sincerely doubt I'd even be alive today. You were there for me in a way that few ever were and I thank you so very much. I wouldn't have the opportunity to see how much I've grown, how incredibly prepared I am now for a significant other heading in my direction. You were right y'know. You were right about it all. I hope whatever Xanadu is that you made it there Robert. I think Xanadu right now is about having friends in my life like you RJ. It's about late night conversations and sharing secrets with Ernie online. It's about having amazing late night dinner picnics on top of the world with Oblivia. It's about finding the excitement in a pair of panties. It's all good. Goodnight. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/09/2001 12:07:00 PM ----- BODY:

number nine, number nine, number nine...

Whoof. It's 3 p.m., and I just rolled into work. And you know what? I think I'm going home sick. I feel like Mr. 9000 does, except I don't have the excuse of being beaten over the head and drugged. I mean allegedly beaten and drugged. I feel so bad, that must have been the best date in years. But last night, I was bound and determined to deliver the properly won prizes: free sex, an E/W soundtrack, and a slightly worn "hint of RJ" pair of underwear. In the end: I gave him his prize, and in return, he gave me his virulent cold. But it was worth it. So our date. Guess what? The blogstalker is very very handsome. We met at the pointy corner of the Flatiron building. I was sitting under the scaffolding. My plan was this: I would get there first, he would walk up, he would start to say something, I would say: "You only have one chance to make a first impression," and then I would stick my tongue down his throat. But I chickened out. He startled me by sneaking around the corner while my back was turned and I was so flummoxed that I think I started tittering. We did indeed have a dinner, after a long, chilly New York evening walk. I led him downtown, towards my house. Of course I did! I'm no prude. Mr. Blogstalker said that 9 was always his lucky number. There we were at Veneiro's, getting desert, and what was our number? D09. I thought, well that's a good sign. I figured it was going to be someone's lucky night. We were on First Avenue and we ran into a young man of my acquaintance. We had just come from getting eclairs and cheesecake. Why don't we take the desert back to my place?, I had said, with an evil smirk. My friend on the street stopped just long enough to read us our horoscopes; mine said: "From time to time readers ask me which other signs are most compatible with their own... It's true that Virgos, Capricorns, and Tauruses can often be good matches for you. But sometimes it's more fun to forget about who's supposed to be your type, and instead experiment... especially now, while you're at the height of your attractiveness to everyone." Why, thank you! Mr. 9K's said: "Many of you Virgos are hungry for knowledge but inefficient at shedding old ideas that no longer serve you... The fresh information you absorb can be digested better if you make room for it through regular data dumps. " Rough deal, dude! The only lie in Mr. 9K's account of the evening is about him not being allowed to speak. Jesus Christ, that guy can talk. Blahdey Blah Blah Blah. That's why I had to bop him on the head. If I heard one more story about Sandy Dennis I was going to shoot myself! All the rest is true. I still can't believe The Scribbler, my roommate, discussed how to build a human-size, bondage-oriented vacuum-compression machine. Now that's good date patter. Oh God. This pounding headache means I might have to cancel on Dan, Mr. 7500, for tonight, which I feel terrible about. Please forgive me, Dan. I'll make it up to you, I swear. You should be happy in one way though: you did have some mighty big... shoes to fill. Oh god. The office is starting to spin. I'm getting out of here. Blargh. The worst part is, in all the confusion, I forgot to give him two of his prizes. Poor guy didn't walk away with either his soundtrack or his freely won underwear. Looks like we'll have to be meeting up again soon... I mean, I should make sure he gets all three prizes, right? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/08/2001 05:33:00 PM ----- BODY:

Popsicle Toes

While RJ is off delivering Mr. 9000 his sexual prowess, his panties (see below) and an East West soundtrack, I'm still here at the office on the West Coast sweltering like a pig at a luau. We're not running the air conditioning anymore because we can't afford it with energy prices through the roof, plus we're doing our part to try and prevent the inevitable blackouts that are coming our way and have already hit many here in California. Today a bunch of us went to Whole Foods for lunch and I feasted on grilled asparagus and the salad bar. Have you heard about the little white figurines of a sheep that someone or some group are placing at international monuments such as the Eiffel Tower and all over the world? Did you hear about the folks who kidnapped gnomes from someone's front yard and then sent the original owners postcards of the gnomes in question enjoying themselves in Japan, Brazil and such? I hadn't heard either of these stories until today, although I've been unable to substantiate either of them. I just sent one of the gals at the office out on a popsicle run. Soon all of us will be sucking on some nice hard delicious coldness to take our minds off the heat. Truth is I love hot weather. I want to take off all my clothes and sit here bare ass naked. I support nudity and popsicles in the workplace today. Once during a game of "Truth or Dare" this friend of ours RJ told us that her boyfriend had tied her to a bed once and fucked her with a popsicle. We started calling her "The Good Humor Lady", but I guess it's one way to cool down fast. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/08/2001 01:41:00 PM ----- BODY:

Panty delivery

Oh my goodness, you did have quite a weekend. I'm just glad you're alive, kitten... Send me some pictures of this Johnny Bravo fella. He sounds creamy. Oh god—and thank you for the soundtrack! I'm so thrilled! I'm cranking it at work right now, to the consternation of the gang here. Oh fuck off, all of you. Go back to work and let me listen to The Donnas in peace! Don't you understand? Joey Ramone is never coming back! Speaking of not working, I'm going to be taking a little break at work with the delightful Book One of the Mapp and Lucia series. This was deliciously sent to me by Jonno in an effort to cheer me up in last week's funk. Thanks kitten, you're the best! It's working already. And yes, all my fictions ARE golden! So, it seems Mr. 9000, our latest psycho-slut blogger sex give-away contest winner, has some ants in his pants and we've set our date for tonight. I'm scared! I'm also scared because my date with Mr. 7500 is scheduled for tomorrow. According to his most recent email, it seems he's rented a hotel room... That sounds, well, scary. I was just in it for the pizza! Okay, and the pizzazz. I guess we'll find out in the next 48 hours if we have to stop whoring ourselves on the Internet, won't we? Okay: confidential to Mr. 9000; as per our emails, I'm wearing tight pants, so that you can walk five paces behind me and enjoy yourself. They're my Masakï Matsushïma pants, strangely enough documented here on our blog, along with a delicious picture of my lower right leg, displayed for our foot fetishist friend Keith. I'm also wearing a white and blue gingham dress shirt, and a trashy blue windbreaker. I'll be listening to a soundtrack to a blog, oddly enough. I'll see you at the aforementioned time, clutching the decided-upon architectural detail... I'll have a pair of men's underwear in my right back pocket, if you know what I mean, and I think you do... Tomorrow, Flip, you'll be able to ask the immortal question: "Did he hit you, girl? It's no fun unless he hits you!" And if I don't reappear, I've written down his full name both on my computer and on a secret hard copy. I want to live! But if I can no longer live, persecute my murderer. At the very least, ship him to Iowa and force him to work in a Strawberry's. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/08/2001 09:38:00 AM ----- BODY:

Just Call Me Lucky

Sometimes when you let things go for a bit, they start to snowball and before you know you've built yourself your very own personal Frosty right in your living room. I feel that way regarding blogging and the past few days. I've been very busy. I didn't burst into flames, but it was perhaps a distinct possibility. Last night, after my incredible evening with Oblivia overlooking all of Berkeley and the entire Bay Area, wearing nothing but shorts and a short sleeved shirt at 10 pm thanks to our heatwave, I came home and wrote a mini-bloggo masterpiece. Just as it was nearly complete, putting the finishing touches on one of the last hilarious links, I closed the wrong Explorer window and it all melted like snow on shag carpet. So now, for the sake of simply catching up, you'll get as much as I can give before I run out the door for work. After all that talk about getting laid on Friday night I just went home, watched tv and went to bed. Self reflection wore me out and let's face it, it's not much of an aphrodisiac. My period without sex moves forward into week 3. I needed to get some rest and I was glad I was on my toes for my day of readings at psychic school the next morning. The guy came told us he was Satan. He'd been having conversations with demonic forces. He had seen horrible things. While his head didn't spin all the way around and there was no hurling of pea soup in our direction, there was so much black negative energy flying around the room it was the most intense reading i've ever been a part of. Was he Satan? No. He wasn't, but he did have many demonic forces with him. He's actually an amazing trance medium who has lost his space physically to other spirits so regularly that he's become unaware of what is really him and what he's just channeling. All I can say is it's a good thing I've been properly trained cause when the two hours were over I still was in pretty great shape. It has left an odd feeling with me though. I mean I have a pretty open mind and this experience continues to challenge me. I was there, I saw it, I felt it and I'm still struggling within my own reality to acknowledge a world where events like this actually take place. After school I came home and fixed myself some dinner. I went into the City Saturday night to meet some friends at this meeting. I ended up being asked to speak. Afterwards a mob of us decided to get something to eat and that's when it happened. I noticed him somewhere else on Wednesday night, and I was surprised to find myself standing there with with the incredibly handsome Johnny Bravo. We starting talking for the very first time and the more we spoke the more I realized I wanted to ditch the crowd and capture all of his attention myself. The restaurant was jammed and we were both standing, waiting. I suggested we relocate to another cafe to him and he was all for the idea. Excellent. A couple others who were waiting wanted to join us and we all headed over to Sparky's for a bite. I had a turkey burger with fries, a 7-up. One of the guys took his lactose pill and ordered a milkshake. "My big wild Saturday night living on the edge". We talked a lot about parking tickets (a San Francisco standard), cheap sexual encounters (and he says to me have you ever done it on the roof of a church), our individual homelands (Johnny Bravo hails from East Coast states), but mostly we laughed a lot. After we got the check from our Marilyn Mansonesque waiter, the other two went on their way and I found myself standing on the corner of Market and Church alone with Johnny Bravo. Johnny: it was good spending time with you. Perhaps we can do it again. Flip City: well, that all depends Johnny: on what? Flip City: on whether or not the attraction I'm feeling here is as mutual as I think it is. I mean if you want to go out we can do that, but I'm not really in the market for new friends to meet for coffee. Johnny: Oh it's mutual alright. Flip City: Excellent And there we are, standing in front of Safeway making out right on the street. It was as if the entire city vanished for a couple of minutes. I forgot where I was. I opened my eyes and was surprised that people were warming all around us on their way to "the club" or that party or to bed. We went to my car to fetch a pen and trade digits, and we ended up sitting in it, listening to the radio, making out. We talked and held each other, we laughed, we kissed very deeply, and a couple of hours just mysteriously vanished. Figuring there must be a catch here, Flip City: So, you married? Got any kids? Johnny: No, single, and I don't think I have any kids. I mean unless someone collected my genes from the floor of a bookstore someplace. He's so romantic. I mean not only is he dreamy to look at, he's smart, funny, quick witted and just twisted enough for my sense of attraction to really start clicking on. Could this be the start of something big? I drove him to his apartment and we said goodnight. As I'm driving home with that slightly whisker burn on my face feeling, I couldn't help but think that tonight was a most pleasant surprise. I mean who starts their day off in a small room face to face with Satan, and ends it sucking face with Johnny Bravo? Life is grand. Sunday was a lazy day. I slept in late and took care of domestics. I thought about going to the gym, but I just didn't care. I was lazy and loving it. I took a long hot bath. I laid in the sun. I thought about Johnny. I also thought about the Swarthy Italian. I never did call him back. Then in the evening it was barbeque with old friends. We listened to Motown and Classic Soul and feasted on chicken and collard greens. Just the right set of for a night that was too hot to be indoors with the perfect level of relatively shallow conversation. We focused on what we are wearing, the heat, hair, the heat, new tunes, the heat... Afterwards I was driving home feeling really good and I heard a songs on the radio by a Norwegian band called Velvet Belly and another called Copenhagen. I want to track both of these artists down. Does anybody know them? Must figure out who they are. When I got home there was the most choice voice mail message from Johnny Bravo. He said everything perfectly. He expressed his excitement and anticipation without sounding insecure or detached. The older I get the more I find myself really listening to communication. There is so much to be heard far beyond what is being said. I was so busy at work yesterday I only minimally participated in our whole 9000 Panty Raid. I have to say that I'm starting to get a little disappointed in our West Coast readership as we breeze through the second contest in a row without anyone on this side of the country even in the mix. I mean what about my needs? I want to give someone my panties!! I want to deliver a pizza in the buff! Maybe I'll be doing something like that on Friday night. Johnny Bravo set our next date on the telephone. Today I will call the Swarthy Italian and try and book one with him as well - though truthfully, I think Mr. Bravo has me already just a little preoccupied. It was great spending the evening with Oblivia. Back from Europe. Back from South America. Her tales of France, of cold lonely nights in London, of almost drinking cleaning detergent by mistake in a Brazillian prison... We used to work together and one of the best things about last night is that she really helped me to realize that my life is amazing. From where we both were six years ago to where we are now? I mean I'm not sure either of us could have imagined it. She also helped me realize how much I'm actually doing - wow - I mean I knew I was busy - but I hadn't looked at it in awhile and felt a real sense of accomplishment. We sat by the whale at the Lawrence Science Building at U.C. Berkeley, eating a picnic in the hot night air. Mozarella and Cherry Tomato antipasto. Black olive and feta focaccia. Ceasar salad. Macaroni and Cheese. Teriyaki Chicken Wings. Caramel cheesecake. Decadent Chocolate Brownies. God Bless Andronico's Deli. Everything was one mouth watering orgasm after another. The entire evening was perfect. The place, the weather, the company, the conversation, the food, the strange couple silently practicing their ballroom dancing. I truly am a very lucky lucky lucky man. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/08/2001 08:09:00 AM ----- BODY:

Crybaby

Okay, so on Friday, Flip blogs how stoked he is about the weekend. There are Swarthy Italians to go on dates with, there are psychic school readings to do, he overcommits to see 10 different friends in 10 different places, et cetera, et cetera. Why, he must have burst into flame! He be no more! Scooby dooby doo, Wo ist Du? Anyway, I'm off to therapy. THANK GOD. Not a moment too soon. Actually, I was up til 4 a.m. last night, talking to a hot smart chesty guy on the Internet, and I'm almost too tired for therapy. It's okay though. I'll be a little "edgy." My shrink's one goal in this world is to see me cry. I'm serious! He keeps trying, he'll even goad me into getting pissed off to see when I'll start crying in frustration. So he'll push me and PUSH ME to the bitter edge and then he'll say: "Wow, it looks like you're really sad/angry/upset/whatever. CAN WE STOP FOR A MOMENT AND EXAMINE THAT FEEEEEEEELING? WHAT DOES IT FEEEEELLLL LIKE? HOW DO YOU EXPERIENCE IT PHYYYYYYSICALLY?" Oh my word, I had no idea I was so sick of him until I started writing this! Oh God is it annoying. Okay, let's be fair: I love my shrink. He's brilliant. He gets great results. SURE, I can get on elevators and in cars now. And he doesn't want to suck up my money and sit around listening to me babble about my dreams. He's very let's-get-to-it. But I am so sick of being manipulated into having a "feeling" in front of another person. That's kind of sad though, right? Right now it's like, all you have to do is breakdown in the middle of therapy and cry and we can move on. And of course I'm not going to do that. Pride, resistance, fear. Or will I today? I'm farging exhausted. I'm stressed out. I'm burned out at work and I'm SO ready to take some vacation. And of course I cry every day in yoga now (pain + meditation= a nice brief cry. Very sooooothing). And of course I have work today, then a drink get-together briefly, and THEN a date after that. I'm really looking forward to the date. More on all this tomorrow, I have to get my stinky ass into the shower. I guess my biggest fear is that maybe I'll mix up my entire day and I'll start crying in front of my date and try to sleep with my shrink? Agh! Nightmare! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/07/2001 12:08:00 PM ----- BODY:

do someone pretty while you can

After consulting with Flip and the legal team (if the screenshot fits, you must acquit!), we have divined a winner. The lovely previous winner, frankie-kins is ineligible. I'm sorry kitten. You know I love you. Plus we have a hot sex date for our next geographical encounter, you know. The next man in was Johnman, that libidinous circle of mystery. Although Johnman was an ideal candidate for hot sleazy sex, as you can tell by his blog, he was a little late on the email. Our winner is a fellow New Yorker, and, more importantly, a fellow Strangers With Candy fan. He's a Virgo, with Aries Rising. What does that mean to a Scorpio like me? Well, according to astronet:

SEXUAL ALCHEMY Did someone mention passion? Scorpio's polymorphous perversity finds ample room for expression with Virgo's earthy sensuality. These two play outrageous games in the sack, but they're so discreet about it, no one else is the wiser the next morning. This pair is low on romance and illusion, but high on plain old fabulous sex. No wonder they smile so much.

Well count me in! Hello, appropriately named blogstalker! I'm dank and musty like a cellar down there! I have plans to deliver my underwear in person, and you would too, if you could see the incredibly hot picture he sent me this morning. Yowza! All hail my new boyfriend! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/07/2001 10:54:00 AM ----- BODY:

duh what?

Flip is sorting out this contest business, as in, who won? I just came back from yoga and I'm too blissed out to deal with having sex with strange strangers. Man that class was rough. But I needed the meditation time. I had some serious shit to think about. I had to eat some fear. I had a pretty serious IM conversation last night with a new friend, and it confronted me with some of my behavior, you know the kind of behavior, the self-hating, self-damaging behavior. But the vague, nicey-nice kind, not the kind where it's obvious, not like I was carving my nipples with razors in a bathroom in the Southwest, ahem. So I'm trying to confront myself in that loving accepting yoga way. That way I'll be ready to put out in a sleazy fashion for whoever our lucky winner is! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/06/2001 11:04:00 PM ----- BODY:

PANTY RAID!

Contest time, you horny rat bastards! Look down that sidebar, are you our 9000th visitor? Wow! I'm going to "breakaway" and go totally nuts!

Ha ha, breakaway, get it? As in breakaway bikini? GOD I crack myself up! Well, I'm gonna work this goddam contest thing into the ground, motherfuckers. Yeah? You wanna see tacky? Well belt yourself in, sugar britches. Try us again, we get freakier! Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you're in tears. That's right. I'm feeling so completely out of my mind tonight. It's a good thing none of you are here. A person could get killed around here! But enough of that, it's time to throw some panties! This is it! The big moment. We've had some early false starters, what with Mr. 6969, and Mr. 8500 and whatnot. If this were the Olympics track events, some of you would be sent back to your country to be executed! But now's your big chance. And yes, to further degrade and pornographize ourselves, to really step into the land of objectification, where the secret power is truly manifested in he who is objectified (hit me with that theory stick, daddy), yes, that's right, yes I said yes, we've added something new: What could be more... more... fantastical than the opportunity to wear me or Flip's underwear on your face? Or perhaps have it framed tastefully over the couch? Besides, of course, the possibility of wearing my ass as a hat, a dream which could come true as well. Yes, that's right, we're offering up one pair of our very own underwear to our 9000th visitor! You get your choice of clean or worn or very worn, signed and personalized, or just plain. It's your own personal panty raid! That plus delightful free sex with one of us, also in your choice of clean, worn, or very worn, and a delicious copy of the East/West soundtrack v 1.0.. What a package! HA HA HA. Get it? PACKAGE?!

The Rules Once Again: 1) You must be a living breathing human being. Sorry, no exceptions. I'm fucking SERIOUS this time, people! Leave me alone, chupacabra! 2) You must provide us with a screenshot as proof that you're 9000 - providing you're capable of such things. We will not necessarily rule out the technically challenged, but you better have a good explanation. Or a really hot picture of yourself. That works! 3) In the event of multiple 9000 qualifiers (which has happened), the first to email both of us will be the real and only winner. 4) In the event 9000 is disqualified for any reason, or simply fails to acknowledge the hot panty raid opportunity that awaits, 9001, 9002, or 9003 will be our big winner. Previous winners are not eligible.

THE FINE PRINT: Ooo! You want to touch my panties, panty boy? You're so dirty! I'm going to speak with a Russian accent and bend you over my knee! Offer void to staff from New Haven pizza parlors, though residents of Oman are most definitely welcome. Again: all offers are subject to acts of God. For this purpose, I am one of God's minions on earth. Bow down before my man panties. This is neither "a game of chance" nor prostitution and violates no laws in spirit or letter. Don't be afraid of any ill effects of wearing panties, gentlemen! We don't do diapers, you freaking pervert! GOD do I need a shower! I've worked myself into a psychotic froth! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/05/2001 01:15:00 PM ----- BODY:

Blow out denial

It has come to my attention that perhaps we have some readers who might know me from the "real" world. Here's a word to the wise: you get what you pay for here. If you find yourself discussed herein, well that's what you get for reading! This website is pretty crucial to my mental health (what little of it there is), so tough titty, Senorita! Love you, mean it! Anyway: of course I woke up from my estupenda siesta right at del tiempo I was supposed to be meeting Sparky y el otros. Mmmmmmm, fuck! I couldn't come to; there were odd sheet marks all over my face and it was travieso caliente in my apartment. I stripped off a layer of skin and threw on whatever clothes were on the floor, and went off to meet los muchachos. It was great to put some faces to all the pathos, especially the super cute faces... What little Spanish I know I learned working at uno centro para los gente sin casa. So I know how to say all sorts of things like "Do you know how to bleach needles?" and "Para el sexo anal, utilice por favor los condoms," and "No molestar por favor los transexuals." Not exactly party talk, well, given last night's blog get-together, at least SOME of it comes in handy. But I love any excuse for white people to put on hats and get borracho! The worst Cinco de Mayo ever I was in Santa Barbara, for some unknown reason. With... my mother? Or was it Charo? Why were we there? I remember trying to find a hotel. Oh yes. We were on our way back from a cousin's wedding in Phoenix, and stopped through Los Angeles, to make fun of places we used to live (we sure know how to have a good time). We wanted to sleep in Santa Barbara but the insanity of a partying college town was in full swing. We were stopped at a sobriety checkpoint, and by that point we were so bummed out that we just kept driving. Santa Barbara makes me gag anyway, with all its faux pretty wanna be Mexican town bullshit. But my Spanish came in handy last night! I'm not sure what we were talking about, but those bloggers certainly speak the international language of love. Man, I don't miss living in California, with the bizarrely uncomfortable racist tensions, with their stupid English-only referendums, and their racist border insanity. Here it's a breezy Spring day; I'm cranking some Calexico and I'm going to order some tacos. Mmmmmmm, fuck, tacos! And yes, that's a picture of me. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/04/2001 09:01:00 PM ----- BODY:

Welcome to the Pleasuredome

The World is my Oyster! Thank God It's Friday and this gruelling work week comes to a close. What can I say, I LOVE FRIDAYS! Goodbye work week. Hello play. There's so much I want to do, so many things going on that I don't even know where to begin. The Swarthy Italian gets home late tonight and maybe, just maybe, we'll end up connecting between now and Monday morning. There are readings to do at the psychic school. And what about Saturday night? Mr. Over Commitment says, "Sure, I'd love to come to your housewarming party ladies." "Sure, I'd love to go to that new meeting with you on Saturday night." "Sure, I'm game for helping you out with that home project. Sounds like fun!" "Sure, I'd love to not do any of the above and keep things open in case Mr. Italiano turns out to be available. At least I'm not overcommitted on Sunday - some friends and I have plans to rendezvous in the evening and just chill and catch up, guys and gals I haven't seen in awhile. As for tonight - well, it's Friday, I'm kinda fried, and I have absolutely nothing on my agenda. They say idle time is the devil's playground. Truth is I really am incredibly horny. This hot dry weather has me ready to fuck this computer if I thought it would do either of us any good. I need some release! I might need to pay a visit to the East Bay Social Club tonight, but if I'm going to see the big Ragu on Saturday, possibly, then I don't want to be wasting my energies on short term projects with a possible long term endeavor on the horizon. Then again if I don't get laid this weekend I could possibly end up hurting somebody. I mean I'm a man with needs and quite frankly I need some. How long has it been anyways? God, at least a couple of weeks. A long time ago I knew this very cool lady who gave me a piece of advice. We were both in this musical version of the Wizard of Oz back in my theater actor incarnation. She said, "Flip, it's been my experience that we really can't work on being a slut and work on getting a relationship at the same time. Our head ends up in an entirely different place depending upon which channel our goals and views are set at." I thought she was right then, and I think she has a definite point now, but I really would like to get naked. We'll see. And if I do end up succumbing to the imperious urge does that mean I'm a man without any sexual willpower? If I end up paying my admission and rubbing my hard body up against another guys for awhile should I be examining sexual compulsion? Should I enlist in some nymphomaniac support group? Should I track down a meeting of some Sex Addicts Anonymous? I don't think so. I mean even if I can become something of a crazed sex maniac, my sex life in general is actually a very small piece of the whole Flip City puzzle. I've gotten my car smog checked and ready for my Department of Motor Vehicles renewal. I went to the post office and kind a few of the soundtracks we owe people actually off and in the mail, more to follow. I've paid my bills. I've been to the bank and my finances are once again in order. I've worked extra hours this week. I've been meeting my psychic commitments and have meditated for at least a half an hour daily. I've made phone calls throughout California to take care of business with the Board that I'm the President of. I've cleaned the house and taken care of various sundry domestic situations. I've spent time on the phone with a couple of friends in need. I mean it's Friday night. If I want to head out and get myself a little buttsex action, whose to say that it's a crime? -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/04/2001 11:54:00 AM ----- BODY:

Thunderdome

Oh my god I can totally smell the excitement in the air! Friday friday friday friday friday friday friday friday friday! I'm so amped. I don't know why. Perhaps it was the yoga class that I got out of bed for at the asscrack of dawn. All that stretching and yanking and meditating. I'm probably just high on endorphis. Plus I love parties and Sparky and Beau have kindly invited a bunch of blogging fruits out for drinks. It's the perfect summer's eve for getting drunk on the Lower East Side—or in my case, watching people get drunk, remembering everything, and then being able to transcribe it all in my blog that same night. Among the many people I am interested in meeting is Mr. Head Robot himself. I'm kind of obsessed with his artwork. I hope you feel the magic with me. A Friday night ripe with possibility. I'm ready for something completely insane! Ooo, my car service is here to pick me up for my tour of Greenpoint. How... glamorous? Let the madness begin! Two men enter, one man leave! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/03/2001 05:38:00 PM ----- BODY:

Funny Lady

Note to all doctors: ease up on the KY with your gay patients! I didn't need to feel overly lubricated all day long, really. My hot doctor has absolutely no sense of humor. I congratulated him after he pulled his finger (finger? hand? who knows?) out of my ass, and he looked at me all puzzled. I don't think he's very smart, and that's not really a good thing in a doctor, is it? At my doctor's glamorous all white Soho office, I had a realization (besides that I don't need a Supersoaker to spray lube in my ass to get my prostate checked). He was doing an extended risk assessment (do you wear seatbelts? do you swallow cum? do you eat vegetables? do you share coke straws? (evidently the coke straw thing has to do with Hep C, I know, I had to ask too)). So I was answering, and I was desperately trying to make him laugh. I was acting like we were on our first date! I mean, sure he's cute, but hello, he's your doctor (yes I have all my realizations in the third person. It's because realizations are about getting outside of yourself). So I was totally in seduction mode, even while answering questions about colon cancer in my family. He talked about testicle self examination and I tittered and carried on like a little girl. Okay, here's a poll: Who's desperate to be liked by everyone? OH ME ME, PLEASE LIKE ME! Do you like me completely? Am I funny enough? If I'm just funny or intelligent enough, everyone will get along and be happy happy and content! And this is with a paid professional person. I can't imagine how psychotic I am with people that I actually want to date. So, I left my doctor, I ran some errands in Soho, saw some old friends who work down there, caught up on fashion at some crappy boutiques, tried to buy shoes but failed (what's with pointy toed shoes? I am so not going there), and generally took in the warm breezy city day. It sure was lovely. I swung by the office around 5 p.m. (I did go to some business appointments today, I'm not a slacker), and caught up on my phone calls. It's nice and breezy over here by the river... And then I realized, hey! I just had an HIV test! I just kind of let him take the blood and run with it. I wasn't paying attention at all! I don't really want to have an HIV test. I mean, I guess it's a good thing, but I always encourage others to enter into serious situations like this with their heads screwed on and knowing what they're getting into. The last thing my Doc said to me was "I'll call you sometime next week with the results." That's the last thing you want for an HIV test: unspecified result time. I realized how important knowing when you'll get your results is when I was a test counselor. People about to be subjected to anxiety focus on when the anxiety will end. Well I could call him back and tell him to cancel it. But I guess I'm getting used to the idea now. Knowing me, I'll probably forget about it until the second he calls. But truthfully, I'm not in a good mindframe to seroconvert this month. I'm not in the mood to get HIV right now! And I'm not exactly some cute little crack baby: noone's going to come over and pick me up and hold me every day. And now I'm going and making it even worse by blogging about it, cuz next week people will be reading and thinking, gee, what happened with his HIV test? And then I'm going to have to sleep with some contest winner and he'll end up being some asshole who asks what your HIV status is before you have sex. God I hate those people. I mean, do people tell them, "No, I'm negative," and then they're like, "Okay, complete stranger, I believe you! Fuck me raw! Whee!"? Safe sex is about doing the same thing with everyone, as I recall. So I'm desperate to be liked and I'm going to be mind-fucked for a while if I seroconvert. Okay, fine. Apart from that, I'm in a great mood. It's gorgeous in New York City, I have some great dates coming up (I'm sorry I haven't delivered Dan's pizza yet, I've been crazy busy), and it's nearly beach season. Also, I've been pursuing the bachelor from my party and I've reached some peace with my crush on him. I'll be sure to let you know if I ever get him in the sack! I might like him even better if we slept together too! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/03/2001 12:55:00 AM ----- BODY:

it's a condition

I might like you better if we slept together. I might like you better if we slept together. I might like you better if we slept together. I might like you better if we slept together. I might like you better if we slept together. but there's something in your eyes that says maybe that's never, Never say never. - Debora Iyall

I touched Debora Iyall's foot once. It was at a concert in Seattle, I was amazed by this fat Native American woman dancing and caressing herself like a sex goddess. She was hot, particularly because she thought she was. singing her heart out. the sound. the saxophone. I was at the foot of the stage, a mosh pit behind slamming me tightly into it. She came towards me and looked directly into my eyes as she sang. I was in awe. An unlikely woman owning her sex and starpower. I reached out to feel it for myself and touched her mocassin.

I've been sitting outside on the porch smoking cigarettes. It's very quiet. No sound at all, not even the whitenoise of the freeway in the distance. A balmy 70 degree breeze hitting me, amazed that I'm outdoors in shorts and a t-shirt. Somethings been amiss all day, even the weather. I woke eager to begin, fresh and sharp as broken glass. I put in a trance cd and danced and showered. I even meditated afterwards for half an hour before making some eggs and leaving the house. It's part of my psychic school curriculum that I should find my space for at least an hour a day, though in all honesty I rarely do. I haven't in months. But today something was different. It's as if I had focus. The homeless man at work vanished for a couple of weeks. I thought he must have died, but he was back tonight. He'd had a heart attack and a stroke. Was in the hospital. They must have spent a small free medical fortune saving his life. In all honesty I couldn't help but wonder why. So he could come back and sleep beneath the awning of our building night after night? Smoking his self rolled cigarettes. Sitting all alone. Panhandling for Jack in the Box. Telling me to have a good night whenever I leave the office and tightly lock the door behind me. On good days I can see the future and it's delicious. On bad days I can't see my way out of a paper bag. On days like today nothing is visible, yet everything is easily viewed. Listening to Debora throughout the day was like a time trip back into my personal vision and history of tragic relationships. my soundtracked reality. C and I kicking the crap out of one another, our fights spilling out into the street, hitting each other with beer bottles, making up, having incredibly intense sex afterwards. My inability to maintain that level of insanity indefinitely. J and our personal resume matches. How great we looked on paper. He adored me and I was always inevitably bored. M and our never ending lark day, which eventually ended. His inability to tell me he loved me. My inability to accept that from a partner. The string of men who have served as band aids for a non existent love life since. I tell myself something will happen. I tell myself this daily. I hear my mother telling me her biggest fear that I will spend my entire life alone. In William Mann's "The Men From the Boys", the main character's partner was the kind of guy who gave himself fully to whomever he was with. Even in the context of their open relationship he fell in love with almost every trick he had. I suppose I'm like that. I'm not delusional in the sense that I believe anything is what it isn't. But when I'm with another man I'm present and accounted for and I give a lot. Many years ago I dated a guy who would later become a porn star. He said, "I don't know that I'm a good match for you because in all honesty I'm really a slut." I replied, "It's okay, so am I, but at this point in my life I'd rather be a slut for one." He still stopped dating me, and this point in my life has lasted much longer than I thought it would. There's nothing unique about the feeling that the men you are truly attracted to won't be attracted to you. There's nothing unique about the feeling that most men who are attracted to you are men you'd never be interested in. Once in a great while though someone comes along and all of the history and programming and charred remains are transcended. I've experienced it before and I'll experience it again. I just hope that when it knocks I'll be home and I'll answer the door. When you've been inside the house before and you know that it can catch fire, it's not as easy to cross that threshold a second time. or a third. or a fourth. But I don't think that's irrational. I think that's just human. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/02/2001 06:50:00 PM ----- BODY:

Welcome Back

We Missed You! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/02/2001 02:55:00 PM ----- BODY:

Numbers

RJ, While you've been busy sending off a very beautiful love letter on a lonely jet plane, we continue to receive airmail from our readers who really want to win some orgasmic hot free sex with one of us, even when we're not even having a contest. Going back aways we had super intelligent reader 6969, the one and only Jason from Somnolent who wrote:

Hey guys, Ach! Not that I hit 7000, lads, but I thought that this numeric milestone would have, at the very least, some good marketing potential. Or a couple guffaws. Or a parochial boot to the head. You decide. Glueckwunsche, Jason

Jason - you deserve more than marketing Mister. Even more than a guffaws or a boot to the head. You realized something along the way that dirty minded boys like ourselves should have been paying attention to. We're not adding any extra random contest winners at this time, but if we were - you'd certainly have won the prize Mister. Which is more than I can say for our next contestant, the somewhat confused Mr. 8001:

Hey there, I'm Fredo, from the blog FREDOtoday and I managed to snag counter number 8001 (just missed 8000 by that much) as I was catching up on east/west. So, in case #8000 fails to claim the prize I can (hopefully) be next in line. That is if you're giving a prize to #8000... (I know you skipped 7000 for the super 7500 prize.) Anyway, I've included the screenshot here as proof of my 8001ness, or something. By the way, I was on AOL when I was surfing to your site, but my PC froze as I was doing the screen grab, so I had to get the screen grab off the other computer here in the house. Not that it'll make a big difference, I'm sure, but, just in case it does.... Catch you later, Fredo

Fredo, You rock mister. I bet you're probably the sweetest guy in all of Blogville too, spending so much time thinking about winning our lil ole contest and going for the gold, but we just weren't having an 8000 contest honey. While we here at East West certainly appreciate your enthusiasm and give you a big fat gold star for effort, you need to score when we're actually playing a round - and believe me, you will all know when we're playing. I wish I had something to award your grand effort for essentially winning a non-existant contest and even following through on the sideline rules we usually have, but all I can offer you is our condolences. Better luck next time. Now some may be clever and others may be a little confused, but there are those like 8250 that are just plain saucy!

So - What do you do for guys in-between? I'm Mr. 8250! What do I win? A set of Ginsu Steak Knives? A Potato-Twirler? Are they delivered Naked? (I'm on the East Coast - FYI) Don't you guys at least give me a t-shirt? Cheers, Johnman

Johnman, thanks for the screen shot. You are indeed 8250. We could send you a T-shirt if we had an East West T-shirt developed, but we don't at this time. Would anybody want one if we made them? Hmmm. I suppose I could just take off my tight fitting white cotton T-shirt I'm wearing right now and send it to you, even if it probably smells a bit from the hot weather and a certain manly perspiration, but I won't be doing that. We could even go out of our way and get some ginsu knives AND a potato twirler AND even deliver them to your door naked, just cause that's the kind of guys we are! But you know what dude - it ain't happening. Here at East West 8250 is just a number. We really don't do anything for the "guys in between" cause A) we're having difficulty keeping up with the winners as it is, and B) we'd rather be the man in the middle. Ahem. Nice try, extra bonus points for hutzpah, but I know you're used to giving a shot to lots of things and trying them on for size. In other numbers news I heard back from Billy Joe last night. I dialed his digits and he called back just as he said he would, about an hour later. His message? "It's Billy Joe calling you back. Later". Now I'm already developing a sense of personal frustration with his communication skills. Meanwhile, I made two phone calls yesterday in my big attempt to start dating again. The second was to the Swarthy Italian. He called me back last night as well:

Flip, I'm really glad you finally called because I misplaced your number and I was even thinking about walking down to your work and seeing if I could just find you. It was good to hear from you. I'm actually out of town right now and will be for the rest of the week, but I'll be back late Friday night and I'll be around this weekend. Hope it works for us to see each other. Let me know. Thanks for calling. Take care.

Now that was certainly worth letting my fingers do a little walking. A little touch tone action and "Kaching!" I'm cashing in!! As for those of you who are waiting to cash in, we will be having a 9000 contest. Jason, Fredo, Johnman, everybody: it's really not that far away. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 5/02/2001 12:05:00 AM ----- BODY:

Love Letter

Do you know the tickly sensation of the very beginnings of a feeling before you squelch it? It's in the throat. It's a very clear evening here, and not so hot that they had to put the air conditioner on in the bar, and we had to go back outside. It's the ghost of summer future. It'll be on your neck before you know it. I'm happy enough to be hot, for now, and just finish this excellent conversation. Big tufts of smoke curl up in the breeze like a unspoken thought. Is anything lonelier than an airplane though? Or being on one, glossy arms touching intimate strangers. Plane chat, plane friends, fast asleep and forgotten. I've been crying rather frequently lately, in the best possible way. Crying is at the end of words. Words are a giant fucking sponge, filtering and muffling. Crying is good, at a commercial, at a film, at an isolated stimulus that is never a person and never a statement. Never with someone in front of you, but it's good enough for now. And I always feel even better.

There is a beautiful park in my neighborhood, and it is dark at night. Dark is something we don't get much of here, but behind the big square of trees people kiss, play basketball, and just walk about in the breeze. A beautiful and rough long-tongued dog leaps for a rubber ball. A park service truck rolls by and interrupts a free shot. For once in Manhattan darkness obscures conversations, secret and otherwise. Perfection is cold. Perfect air machines only need you to maintain them. They don't want the enhancement your adornment would bring. A cigarette, a cigarette, another cigarette. As if cigarettes weren't a giant absorbent as well. So what? There are enough feelings to go around. You could be alone anywhere. My loneliest experience was a dissolving marriage, the marriage that actually began in that same park. Then sleeping next to someone every night for years. One night his breathing takes on a different tone, becomes irritating, and you think, I don't care, I don't care, you've worn me down. And then you think, I've failed. I haven't done something good enough. Here comes loneliness. I spent the last six months of my marriage on a stool in my kitchen, smoking and reading every night, all night. I was reading We Have Always Lived in the Castle one night, at 3 a.m., and he came in and said, "What are you doing up?" I don't know, I said. I became an insomniac. I became isolated. I started to get deep bags under my eyes. More and more inside myself only. The sun would come up all blue and frosty and I would climb over his sleeping body, desperate not to wake him up, and lie against the cold wall and wait to sleep. Just when I would be ready to get up and smoke some more, suddenly it would end, and being awake would slam shut like a freezer door.

-------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 5/01/2001 05:10:00 PM ----- BODY:

Gone Fishing

Today I chose a bright red Mr. California vintage short sleeve shirt to wear with my khakis. It's May Day and I'm drinking a Mango Madness Snapple and feasting on my daily classic chicken ceasar. Earlier today Hippie Chick asked me to go to Arizona with her. "When are you leaving?" "Tomorrow morning," she replied. And all day long I've been wishing, hoping, praying that I could cut out of here and road trip. Breeze through Las Vegas for the upcoming Dream Date with Mr. 6000 West. Maybe hook up with Matt or Chris in Phoenix for some R & R while Hippie Chick takes care of personal business. Venture on down to my beloved Tucson and sit a spell at the Cup Cafe and sip iced coffee with Richard. It all sounds so sensational. But my boss is like "You really need to take a look at this and this and that before the end of the week Flip. I'm sorry." I'm sorry too. But then again my weekend's pretty full. I can't get away and that truly saddens me. The New Guy and I took a break awhile ago and wandered outside in the warm air. "So, are you seeing anyone?", he asks. "No. Honestly, I don't even have time to date right now." He looks at me. "That's not right." And you know what? Talk about hitting the nail on the head. I've been carrying around in my pocket the phone numbers of the Swarthy Italian and this other guy I met a few weeks ago with the intention of calling them every day and I just never get around to it. You know what: I'm gonna call them both right now. The Swarthy Italian wasn't home, no big surprise since it's still work time. I left him a message. As for the other guy whom I will call Billy Joe - he actually picked up. Hows things? Good, you? Things be good, you? Cool. etc. etc. etc. But then he said, "You know, I'm actually expecting a call right now and I need to keep the line open. Can I call you in about an hour?" I said sure - so we'll see if that was a brush off or a real meal deal. In any case, the fisherman has cast his lines. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 4/30/2001 11:51:00 PM ----- BODY:

May Basket Case

RJ, you actually made me almost care about your cause, but I'm like that lady in the Webvan commercials. "I want to start a revolution, but I need bisquick." So many distractions. So little time. Can't we overthrow the government later? Ally McBeal is on. When I was a kid my mother helped me make May baskets out of construction paper. We'd spend time together cutting out patterns in bright colors. I'd put them together with scotch tape and then it was time to wander around the neighborhood to look for stealable flowers. Once the baskets were filled came the best part. Knocking on old ladies doors, leaving the basket on the porch, then running like hell to hide so no one would know that it was me. The kid from across the street or around the corner, stealing bluebells out of your yard to present to you as a bundle of Beltane joy, only back then I wasn't aware of the pagan roots behind my mother's ritual. I just thought it was fun and sneaky.

Speaking of childhood, guess what I'm drinking right now? Mmmmm. That's right. a delicious Fanta banana slurpee from 7-11. I just ran down there to pick up a pack of smokes. They were out of my brand so I settled for a box of Marlboro reds and they simply aren't pleasing me. It seems my next quitting smoking adventure is looming on the horizon. Look out America. Earlier tonight I was on the phone with the one and only Oblivia. Longer time readers will remember her previous appearances on East West. She's back in the Bay Area for a short stint and we made dinner plans for next Monday. I'm excited to hear about her latest adventures in London before she's off to France for a couple of months. Oblivia is the only person I know who has known about East West from the gate. She's been catching up on my life throughout all of her travels. In fact tonight she had me laughing about things in our archives I didn't even remember writing. Today has been a slow day. I'm Mr. Slowcore. I move slow. Get used to it. My body is sore. My spirit is sore. I'm sore from head to toe. I've been listening to the new Mogwai and I love it. At times it gets very Pink Floydesque, but then the next track drives me into that huge thick wall of sound that I love. The quieter times remind me more of Labradford than older Mogwai. Did I say that I love it? I honestly don't recall much of what took place at work today. I remember a computer, some project, getting chummier with the new guy, some M & M's. Then I went to psychic school to answer phones where I laughed and laughed and laughed about nothing in particular. I'm sitting at the Welcome Table these days. I recieved a reading from a psychic friend tonight and she verified that my space is in the midst of huge change. It's no wonder I'm sore all over.

It does all kind of make me want to celebrate May Day though, only I don't have any ribbons, I don't know any old ladies who are sick. In fact, I don't know anybody in this neighborhood at all. Why do I live here? And even though I'm really not a pagan, I still love a good excuse for a party. I suppose I can greet the dawn with singing and dancing and wear bright colors. I can do that. I can handle that. I can handle that and sleep. I'm going to bed so I can get ready to celebrate! And who knows, I may end up dreaming about barbarella for the second night in a row. We had quite the talk last night. Trippy. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 4/30/2001 10:18:00 PM ----- BODY:

May Day! May Day!

"In this day and age, ignorance is not only inexcusable, it is criminal and perhaps fatal. The Anarchist Cookbook is not a revolutionary work in itself, just as a gun cannot shoot, but I have a sincere hope that it may stir some stagnant brain cells into action. If the people of the United States do not protect themselves against the fascists, capitalists, and communists, they will not be around much longer. Do I sound like an alarmist? Follow the process of disintegration: from the most immediate capitalist pollution; through the rising inflation, which is creating an atmosphere ripe for communism; to the final repression of the people by the fascists in power. Maybe I use the term revolution too frequently in this book, without really defining it. I will do so here. I do not particularly like any form of government but, if the majority of the people seem to think that they are incapable of governing themselves and want a government, then I think the principles the United States was born with are about the best there are. So now revolution comes to mean revitalization, bringing America back to where she was two hundred years ago. This is the first time I've thought of myself as a reactionary. I believe that the people in power–not only political power, but also economic and social power–will not non-violently give up that power to the people. Power is not a material possession that can be given, it is the ability to act. Power must be taken, it is never given. I hope that, by the time the two hundredth anniversary of The First American Revolution rolls around, we will be able to look back at the sixties and early seventies as a dark era in the great history of a free nation." --William Powell, The Anarchist Cookbook, ©1971 Lyle Stuart Inc./ ©1989 Barricade Books, Inc.

Anarchist links of the day: rec.pyrotechnics FAQ NYC radical action calendar An Anarchist FAQ The Edward Said Archive Bay Area Independent Media Center anarchafeminism Free Software and the Death of Copyright Police Brutality Database CRASS William Powell's disowning of the Anarchist Cookbook -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 4/30/2001 01:25:00 AM ----- BODY:

Hey Man, Nice Aura!

The psychic conference was very cool, but it's good to be home. I got to the hotel on Friday night and spent the entire weekend in relatively benign Hilton luxury. Didn't really matter that they had the whole jacuzzi and swimming pool set up for us, the conference demanded pretty much all of our attention. There were many presentations and lectures and workshops and readings and healings. It wasn't like a psychic fair. It was a weekend for psychics all about skills building & a little bit about socializing. It was actually a lot of work.

Friday night after a presentation two older women invited me to go to on a diner expedition with them. I gladly accepted cause I was starving. Inside the Buttercup 24 hour restaurant the hostess took us to our table and as I sat down I felt something rather strange. Then my new friends sat down across from me and they were both looking at me like "What is going on here?" So I asked the waitress: "What's up with that seat over there? There's something wierd about that seat." She looked at me and seemed perplexed for a moment and then she said, "Well, there's a regular customer who comes in all the time and that's his seat. Other than that it's just a seat." And that's when I saw him sitting there. He didn't really want anybody sitting at his table. I asked the waitress, "And he's a very heavy set man, brown hair, very round face?" The waitress replies: "exactly, do you know him?" We all started laughing, and then we left that seat at the table empty so we weren't in his way. I had a turkey burger, french fries, lemonade. We yakked and told stories. And then I had to go to sleep. I was fading out. Saturday there were more lectures and presentations. I mean we were working energy all weekend. Work work work. Except for Saturday night - the night of the big conference party. That was actually a lot of fun. Everybody dancing for hours, getting shitfaced, and hit on each other like dogs in heat. The theme for the event was "Tropical Heat" and I'd say half the crowd was in costume. I still had my sarong in the trunk of my car (there with other items for spur of the moment beach access) and I ended up wearing it to the dance. Just my Fire island manskirt and some beads. The music was fun too. A real mix of stuff from Ricky Martin to Metallica to the B-52's to Classic Soul. There were door prizes near the end of the night, sort of silly awards for different things and I won the "Wild Thing" award for being the wildest person there. I left the dance with this guy and gal from my psychic school - both of whom I have found myself somewhat sexually attracted to in at least some capacity - and we went to the bar and he bought us a round of drinks. I'm going to call him the tribal leader. I had a non-alcoholic beer, while they both proceeded to get even more bombed. Hanging out in a swank hotel bar with a bunch of drunken psychics isn't very pretty, but it's extremely amusing in a sort of David Lynch kind of way. The tribal leader kept giving people unsolicited readings on their chakras and what not in his slurred speech, as well as periodically telling me who at the conference I wanted to have sex with. Usually the answer was him. Talk about cheesey drunken psychic conference pick up bullshit lines. Truth is I wouldn't mind having sex with him at all, in fact I told him so, only I really had no interest in having sex on Saturday night. What I wanted was a good night's sleep, not waking up with some semi-straight classmate who was plastered enough to not even have been fully aware of what he was doing. If I'm gonna have sex with someone I kind of like it when they're there for the event too.

Today there were more lectures, readings, etc. I was actually happy when it was all over. I mean I felt great after meditating and working all that energy all weekend long, but I was so ready for a Sobe, a cigarette and some sunshine. I went and got my "after" aura photo taken. Friday night before shot: paler bluish green with some bright spot beings hanging out in the upper part of my aura. Sunday evening after shot: Full on bright and explosive with strong colors throughout. Yes, there have been changes.

After the conference I decided to go to Amoeba Records so I could pick up the new Mogwai cd. It was so beautiful today I wished I had been home spending the day at the beach or something. Gorgeous. I found a parking spot in Berkeley right by People's Park and stumbled into the People's Park Anniversary Celebration. Nobody could tell me how many year's ago the park opened, and it wasn't clear that anybody really cared about the details. Odd in the sense that half the crowd is clearly stuck in the 60's. History obviously means something, but not too much. I was completely out of my element anyway. clearly I wasn't fitting in at the Summer of Love. Hippies kept looking at me with a slight look of concern, probably because I had a camera too, Kenneth Cole slacks, Diesel shirt... but I'd just flash them a peace sign and everything was cool. I listened to some reggae, pretended like I'd been smoking the mighty ganja weed, found out about all the latest on boycotts and Mumia and what not, a whole lot of things I really couldn't care less about. I was outside, sitting in the sun, listening to some pretty good live tunes, and watching sort of fat old wierd hippies take their clothes off. It was heaven!

The new Mogwai disc is great. Sort of a new direction, I mean there's vocals. I've only heard half of it so far, but I really like it. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. And now: Bedtime for Flip City. Sayonara. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 4/29/2001 09:46:00 AM ----- BODY:

Date Bait

Last night I attented a party run by a gay dating service, Date Bait, which we used to call Date Rape. They have a scary disclaimer you have to sign when you go, acknowledging and indemnifiying the organization in case you get killed and chopped up in little parts. Now, I know my dance card is kind of full, what with my special sauce to deliver to Dan in Jersey City, and a cheap meal (and probably more) owed to Tin Man, and of course my future upcoming marriage to Steve (okay, he won a night of sex, but he doesn't know he can easily have it all, sshhh!). But since Jersey City and Newfoundland are equally distant in my mind, I thought I should fill in the gaps in my dating life. Plus, I want to meet my gay quality soulmate! Gosh, doesn't everyone!? I know, I know. I'm the bitter divorced one. Please humor me. It's kind of sad, really. Oh, the shame. 90 gays huddled in a room in the gay and lesbian center. The crowd was pretty white, I have to say. And guess what? They were pretty generic on the inside, too. We each had to get up and make a one minute speech about ourselves. Can you feel the humiliation? We were supposed to be writing down the names of guys we were interested in, but I was writing down notable quotables—except when I was laughing too hard. One guy stood up, Leaves of Grass in hand, and delivered us some Whitman—in full-on poetry voice. I'm fucking serious. I believe it was When I heard at the close of the day. Actually, it was kind of sweet and refreshing. Okay, I was traumatized by that point of the evening. It's important to know about me that I get giggly and hysterical when I'm nervous or anxious. First of all, there were FIVE disgruntled lawyers. Now don't forget, you have one minute to describe yourself alluringly. If you talk about how much you hate your job and how you hate being a lawyer, what are you doing? That's not self-marketing. That's self-sabotage. Anyway, here are some of my favorite self-descriptions:

"I'm looking for a man to open me up to another vision of life." [it just sounds dirty] "I'm looking for a man to save me from the bar scene." [agh! run run run!] "My ideal date would be to get all dressed up and go do something... really special." [Mr. Imagination?] "I want a man who I can hug on a cruise ship." [just plain freaky] "I believe in living dreams." [yeah, like hanging out with you on a Saturday night at the Gay Center. Dreamy!] and my favorite: "I don't like reading books. I like flipping through magazines. I like going to museums because that's sort of like flipping through magazines."

How great a thing to say is that? I fucking died laughing. Mmm, he hates books! He's the one for me! I know I'm being kind of mean here, so let me say this: the whole evening was actually very sweet. I totally admired all the guys for coming out and giving it a whirl. I mean, my speech SUCKED ASS, so I should talk. Mine was totally one of the worst. But you know I always sat with the cool kids in the cafeteria, so I have a hard time being nice. The anti-smoking gays were there in force. Anyway, when I walked in, there was one guy there who I thought was hot. Well, there were three, but I eliminated two of them immediately—the recreational crystal meth user and a bitter lawyer. Oh, and the former ice skater. That sounded kind of hot—I wondered if he still had some of the outfits. So after four fucking hours of torture, guess what? I ended up matched with the one guy I thought was hot when I walked in. Coulda saved 15 bucks and a lot of time being forced not to smoke. But I'm excited. He's like 6'1", Italian, 24, and has piercings and a good sense of humor. Count me in! He can bait my date anytime. Now I just have to find a free night in the next two weeks to go out with him and see if I've made a love connection! I'm under 30 and I'm going on a date! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 4/28/2001 01:06:00 PM ----- BODY:

Forever's gonna start tonight!

Oh, Flip. You're so nipplelicious! You're niptastic! But I can't believe you didn't take the opportunity to link The Breast Chronicles, who I have loved from afar for some time now. This morning I woke up to the "Total Eclipse of the Heart" video playing on MTV2. Wow. It's mindblowing. Bonnie Tyler is surrounded by interpretive dancers at an English boys prep school. The swim team is there, doused in water. A young man in a diaper does cartwheels. And my does that song go on. I've been a-rushing and a-hurrying all about town this week. Mid-week it was a fancy expensive dinner benefit for some art institution. I like playing dress up. Wedgewood cufflinks. Pink sweaters with brown suits. Very Sicilian. Why not fag it up? There were all sorts of white ladies there: old white ladies, not-quite-old white ladies, tall white ladies, but mostly rich white ladies. And Willem Dafoe.They were all nice. But of course who did I meet? The other smokers. And what did they smoke? Carlton Light 100s. With a water filter! I am so loathe to give up smoking because it's such a good way to meet the most interesting people. Conversation in the dining room was so nicey-nice. But sneak to the back bar with the smokers, and suddenly it's "Oh yeah, that speech sucked!" and revelations about other people's husbands. I would miss that forever. So I've been out til after midnight it seems like every night since the bachelor party and I haven't taken time to stop and smell the flowers. And it's Spring! This is exactly when one stops to smell those stinky fleurs, isn't it? The housemate and I have lived in this apartment for five years and we've never gotten curtains. I think we didn't because we moved in in summertime, and even high up like we are the ailanthus trees, those Chinese weeds, blocked much of the view into our apartment. It was so gorgeous here that summer, so much more light than in the other months, and these weird abstract green and yellow leaf systems would brush against our windows in the wind. I woke up earlier than I wanted to today but the roommate goes to yoga every morning at 10, and I wanted to lay about, drink tea, and smoke. I was sitting naked on my little stool in the kitchen (fully exposed to dozens of neighbors, I'm sure) and I realized our trees were just beginning to grow fresh little Spring shoots. Since they built a new building behind ours, the ailanthus don't lose their little fall mating pods anymore—the pods just hang on all winter til disposessed by new growth. And also, now instead of being barren all winter, caterpillars move onto the pods and cover them in silk. You look out your window in October and the entire tree is a waving cottony morass of tiny lumpy animals. But what does an old tree make you think of? Maybe poetry. Sure, maybe death. I was thinking about how tired I was, and how sick I was of my little bronchitis, like silkworms tying up my lung capacity. I could be at the end of a somewhat manic cycle. I've been confused, afraid, a little shell-shocked. I've also been incredibly efficient these last few days, firing off dozens of emails from all 5 of my email lives and cracking the whip at work. But I've also been cranky and unhappy and unable to get past that. So I was thinking that this pretty weed tree was here before I lived in New York City, and who knows what it'll outlive. Will it outlive me? It's got a better chance of outliving my poor triple-diseased xboyfriend, that's for sure. You know when you feel like, gosh, nobody I know has died for a while. I wonder who's next? That's not a very logical thought. Anyway, I'm going to the hot new doctor for a physical next week. I haven't been to a doctor in, hmm, maybe eight years? I decided maybe it was time to grow up a little more. This is how adulthood and old age creeps up on you; first you get a bank account, then you get a second phone line, then you have your own psychotherapist, an eyeglasses prescription, a regular doctor, a stock account, a cell phone, and then next stop is Depends undergarments. Oh I know. I can't leave a tender moment alone. I can't get serious without making a joke out of it. But you know what I mean. Every season makes you think at least once about the speed of life, and how you better get it while you can. So I'm going to chug down this bottle of Volvic, and tonight, well, together we can take it to the end of the line! We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 4/27/2001 02:18:00 PM ----- BODY:

Flip's Nips

As promised to Steve, Mr. 5000 score, I'm about to reveal a little bit more!

I'm feeling much better, my big report is done, and now I am free to go wild in the sun!

A big thanks to Brian, our special blog boy, cause without his big help, there'd be no nipple joy!

Aren't these rhymes bad? I'm making them all just for you Steve in hopes that one day you'll get your ass back online so I can slap it again on a daily basis. We miss you here at East Coast West Coast. I'm going to be out of town this weekend at a big psychic hoo haa, so while RJ will be keeping you all entertained with his hijinx I'll be off on a magical journey of my very own! Maybe someday I'll be the new Cleo. Ya never know! Have a great weekend everybody! don't forget to click on my pics! you know I love it. oh yeah, harder! our pics are almost always clickable. -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Choire DATE: 4/27/2001 12:21:00 PM ----- BODY:

Mixed Meats

Remember that time I was too lazy to carry my laptop home, and then I called in late to work? I was full of malaise. A post-modern sort of malaise, really. And then I finally appeared at work, only to find that I had been sold like a heavily salted and smoked side of beef, cut into tiny thin slices and spread lovingly over cheese? I remember that time. Apart from feeling kinda violated, I feel kind of hot and bothered! I'm so excited! I'm really pleased with all the contest responses. All you non-bloggers should know by now: bloggers require a HUGE amount of validation. Thank you for giving it to us. And in return, we'll give it to you, Dan! We believe in give and take. Do you know why I appreciate you Dan? Because you tell good stories. Hopefully I'll be one more in your good story repertory. Hey, that rhymes! I'll let y'all know how my pizza delivery turns out! -------- TITLE: AUTHOR: Philo DATE: 4/27/2001 09:52:00 AM ----- BODY:

Pizza Love

Our Super 7500 Contest Winner placed his late night pizza order as he picked up his cell phone and hollered out the magical words, "Bring Me The Pepperoni Baby!! Bring It To Me Now!!!!" Our very lucky Mr. 7500 is not a blogger, so I do not have a link to share with all of you so you can check him out, but he did send a picture and he's tasty. Basically he's one of our incredible not so average readers like yourself, noting that none of our readers are average. His name is Dan and he lives very close to RJ's Delivery Area. I mean I seriously thought about trying to make it my route, but considering his turf runs from the entire East Coast to the East Side of the Mississippi River, I'd say Jersey City's a piece of cake. Wouldn't you? Now get this: In the creation of this particular contest I was surfing the web looking for anything pizzariffic, and I stumbled across a page about Sicilian "apizza" in New Haven. It cracked me up, so much so that I sort of borrowed a bit of a sentence from it about the particular restaurants. And it turns out our winner Dan not only knows everything about "apizza", he even knows the three New Haven pizzerias I specifically mentioned. Can you believe that? Coincidence? We think not. I'd say it's destiny for you RJ. A Pizza Destiny. Here's what Dan has to say:

Sally's. Pepe's. And Modern. Especially Modern. I can't tell you two how joyful it is to see these New Haven institutions mentioned in your contest post. You see, I spent 7 years living within walking distance of those fine restaurants, and patronize them I did. In fact, they often served as the starting points of potential relationships. And too often they also served as the ending points. There was that golden-haired temptress back when I thought I was straight. The 31-year-old undergrad who worked at an insurance company and wanted to be a psychologist. "Yes, I can see how telling people they can't receive life-saving treatment can give you insight on human emotions." And then there was the minister. That fucking cock tease. Couldn't he have been ecumenical with me? It seems that when enjoying truly amazing apizza, my mouth turned out to be the only organ receiving pleasure. It was all too common; one hot dish naturally precluded the other. And so, Flip and RJ, I can't tell you how much it means to be crowned Mr. 7500. Pizza & Sex. Both delivered to my door, at the same time. Two great pleaures finally united. This changes my view of the world. I can't thank you enough. Really. Dan Jersey City

Seriously Dan, the pleasure is ours. You should be hearing from our East Coast Pizza Delivery Boy later today. All I can say is Congratulations Dan! I only wish you were West Coast. You really walked away with it. No double winners this time. No quesetions. But I will send a shout out to Mr. or Ms. 7501 who wandered through without a word, to Mr. 7502: Sorry Charlie in New York City, my belovedly disqualified Mr.