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


come to east west 2
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:


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:


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:


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:


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:


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.
my retarded toe
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:


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:


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:


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:


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! --------