Naturally, a highly sought after world-reknowned legend among djs swamped with headline bookings at all the hottest venues in clubland would never stoop to something so lowly as relentless, gratuitous word-of-mouth self-promotion—except, perhaps, as a way to amuse himself during endless hours of tedious minimum wage data entry.
Tonight I had the unexpected pleasure of dining with a longtime family friend from whom I used to take swimming lessons as a kid (age five or six, maybe) at good old Stacey Pool in south Austin.
He's now had full blown AIDS for nearly 20 years, yet seemingly couldn't be at all happier with life.
I won't soon forget his account of how on a recent trip he'd briefly been detained by airport security and questioned about the contents of his colostomy bag. His response: "Well, if you must know, it's full of shit."
For the false plumber who is made being blocky the projection and persuasive power where the large quantity is sharp deeply with the sweaty sheriff where the pump and the panty are large makes be well versed...
It's become an almost weekly ritual: hanging out on my balcony with Dagon, totally blazed, beaming with pride as yet another SUV or jalopy, absent the moron who owns it, swiftly disappears into the night.
By my supposedly best friend DAGON, for whom laying pipe up some random ASSHOLE is apparently more important than making good on his commitment to work out nightly—no ifs, ands, or BUTTS—with yours truly =(
Today I'm reminded of one of the few still-cherished gifts ever given to me by an ex-girlfriend. It's a small pen and ink portrait of Sisyphus, dutifully pushing his boulder up the hill, with a sunny, carefree smile on his face.
No sooner had I begun toying with the idea of making some sort of effort to somewhat curb my severe nicotine addiction sometime in the not too distant future than those evil sons of bitches at U.S. Smokeless Tobacco come along with their luscious new Skoal Citrus Blend, a pinch of which is like one of those tangy lemon flavored Dum Dum suckers I used to get after breakfast at Denny's when I was a kid, but with a special kick, damnit.
Addendum 25.3.07: Please do note I'm about the most atypical consumer of smokeless tobacco there is. Even the apparent new dipping fad at certain gay bars in Austin, according to Dagon, is merely an uptick in patronage by closet-ish country queers from surrounding areas.
Day two of complete rest following 40 miles of excruciating non-leisurely* running in one week finds me in a miserable state of withdrawal—fidgeting, pacing, unable to focus on anything (besides blogging) for more than about two minutes. It sucks so bad I'm even thinking perhaps I should finally just stop all this madness—all this insufferable recuperation between workouts, I mean.
*I especially scorn the idea of a "target zone". My own target is simply to push 200 bpm for as long as I possibly can.
Mine is completely fucked right now. One moment I'm simply numb, resigned to the utter pointlessness of it all, then suddenly I'm in a transcendent state of awe, marvelling at the impossible odds I've overcome to somehow materialize from the vast firmament in a sentient form capable of embracing the utter pointlessness of it all—back and forth, two or three times a day.
There's no way to convey how unnerving this is to someone who's never experienced it, but trust me, it is. Still I've long had a tendency to go through such phases in late winter or early spring, and so I know it's unlikely to last more than a few weeks.
I'm sure I'll be a-ok.
Addendum 26.2.07: Yes, I am "bipolar". I suppose there's no point being skittish about it seeing as the reader who happened to ask freely acknowledges being a methadone addict.
Earlier I was thinking about my favorite scene from Boogie Nights, and wondering if I shouldn't go ahead and buy the soundtrack. This in turn got me thinking perhaps I should move to L.A. and just do porn for the next twenty years—for all of about two seconds, that is, until I considered my qualifications, or rather disqualifications, and totally cracked up at the irony.
The time I was served at least half a dozen drinks at a bar on Bourbon Street after declining to provide proof of age and explaining to the bartender that I was in fact underage:
I sat there whining. I'd been on a crowded bus for ten hours and I simply wanted a drink. I wasn't there to make trouble. But the bitch began losing her temper. She yelled over at the enormously fat, semi-conscious owner, "Hey, this 19 year-old kid's tryin' to get served and he won't fuckin' leave!" To which the owner, after mumbling to himself for several seconds, suddenly shot back, "If he's old enough to die for his country, he's damn well old enough to sit at my bar and drink! Serve the young man!"
If you begin to feel concerned about the growing intensity of your friendship with some other male, you should sit him down and let him know you no longer wish for the two of you to spend so much time together without usually having hot chicks around.
The one time I've ever to my knowledge been sexually aroused by another male:
I was in a back alley mini-super in Cabo picking up a few refreshments after a long day hiking and swimming. When I got through the checkout this seriously hot girl took out her wallet and paid the cashier, then walked off without saying a word. Needless to say I followed her and we did talk.
A few hours later I met her at the bar where she worked. As soon as we sat down she very casually mentioned she was a transexual prostitute, and I remember finding it odd how very casually I took this. Then she started buying me shots.
About an hour after that I was totally drunk with this delightful little thing draped all over me, and by then I could no longer have given a fuck about her karyotype. So we did, uh, kiss for a while, then she went to go make some money and I went back to my room and passed out.
If ever you find yourself at a small, all male social gathering where the only available smoking paraphernalia bears more than a slight resemblance to a massive male erection, it's alright to toke up as long as you repeatedly express your extreme displeasure with the experience—you know, so your friends won't get the wrong idea and try any funny stuff.
But if somehow, despite your efforts, your friends get the impression you totally love sucking that cock, or if one even shows you, in explicit detail, how much he loves sucking it, well, you've no choice but to have a total fucking cow and accuse them all of being devious sexual predators who've clearly conspired to get you stoned out of your mind and forcibly, repeatedly soddomize you, perhaps even using the offending item itself.
-noun Total wussiness over some truly exquisite female (not infrequently involving wistful thoughts of baby names), to which a typical über-heterosexual male will claim total immunity—whenever he's not in fact making a total wuss of himself over some truly exquisite female.
-noun An activity normally undertaken for the purpose of achieving inner peace and freedom from worldly concerns—concerns such as getting laid—that when performed in the presence of one or more members of the opposite sex, with lots of heavy, ghoulish breathing and moaning, plus frequent loud, jarring OMs and fits of meaningless jibbersish, may get one laid.
If a certain short, plain-looking female friend of yours comes over one evening with her awesome antique peace pipe, hoping you might be in the mood to fuck her after she smokes you out, and after passing it back and forth a while you suddenly hear the pipespeaking to you, distinctly saying, "I now belong to you.", well, you've no choice but to accept it. Because even if it appears you're taking advantage of your little admirer—who will doubtless be reluctant to part with a treasured heirloom given to her by her deceased grandfather—you know that just isn't the case. Rather, you simply musn't disobey the wondrous spirit of the pipe, lest it become angry and take vengeance on you both.
(Plus if you do fuck her she'll be so grateful she'll probably feel you deserve to have it.)
You've got to be kidding me. She actually took her things and left, even having the nerve to call you a sleazy pornographer on her way out? Damn. That is rough. Then later she showed up again with a certain supposed buddy of yours who accused you of mistreating her and threatened to beat your ass? Man that sucks. Looks like you need to be more careful choosing your friends. And lucky for him you had the self-restraint to remain firmly planted on the couch while he was all up in your face talking that smack, considering how seriously out of your mind you must be at this point.
Anyhow, seems it is finally time just to face facts. She obviously can't overcome her fear of disappointing you once again, and now she's so angry at herself she's taking it all out on you—being horribly abusive even. Therefore, your best and perhaps only option is simply to end the relationship, painful as that may be for her. As for you, after all you've been through you should definitely try to relax and clear your head a bit, perhaps by cruising around town in your crummy little Chevette at all hours blaring the Smashing Pumpkins and getting totally stoned, or if you're all out of weed, calling on your friends at all hours to see if they'll smoke you out.
And if at home you get to feeling a bit lonely on the futon, you know you can always pop in that video and jack—oh wait, it got jacked. Nevermind. You might try searching for it online though.
Of course you will have to settle the score with that backstabbing little punk—oh what's that you say? You are willing to give him a second chance? My that is awfully big of you. Well heck in that case, you know he's always holding; if you stop by and forgive him he'll surely slip you a few buds. And who knows, he might even let you fuck him.
Rarely I'll discover a track with such an evocative, excruciatingly beautiful vocal performance I sometimes have to cry, literally, when I hear it. Yet more special, though, is a completely vocalless track that has the same effect. (Ditto for Hybrid's Symphony, by the way.)
Eye Q Records (R.I.P.) is one of the sickest dance labels in history, and this has to be the sickest track they ever released—with it's rippling little melody and jumping bassline, infused with shrill, dissonant synth washes and thrashing peals of acid that rev like an engine; all merging, separating, colliding, breaking apart, almost dying, then totally coming back to life. It's soooo luscious.
No luck with the gangsta? Sheesh. If I didn't know better I'd say she was, well, otherwise inclined. Fortunately, though, after flipping through your clinical psychology textbooK you've finally arrived at the correct diagnosis—that she's so fucked up in the head she can hardly comprehend her own deep, burning lust for you—and at last it's obvious she needs far more than just your unsurpassed expertise on the futon; indeed she needs you to make her whole with the intensive, nurturing sexual therapy only you can provide. So while you may be feeling slightly bitter given her seeming lack of appreciation for all your efforts thus far, you mustn't now let her silent, mournful cries for help go unanswered.
Of foremost importance in this endeavor, she will constantly have to be consoled with your explicit reassurances—to be ever reminded that while the fault lies entirely with her and not you, there's no need to worry because you're a compassionate man who will free her yet from the shackles of her confusion and self-doubt. Toward this end, she'll of course require countless hours of your wise, tender tutelage in the most arcane secrets of female masturbation—ways of taking herself far beyond any imagined limits of sexual gratification—that she could never possibly discover on her own. Likewise, you must impart to her the insight necessary to interpret her sexual responses by explaining to her, in great detail, what exactly it is she's feeling throughout each exercise. Naturally this will once again demand your unsparing patience and perserverance, but trust me, this time your efforts will not go unrewarded. Because in taking this guided journey of self-exploration she willfinally come to understand the myriad intricacies and wonders of her body, which at last will enable her to experience the full majestic power of your own caresses.
By the way, it will surely behoove you to capture each of her lessons on video so you'll have a complete record by which to more rigorously scrutinize her progress. Just make certain you remove the tape before you, say, take the camera to a party and get so stoned you accidentally leave it behind and have it stolen.
If after months of fruitless toil on the futon, having covered the entire Kama Sutra andThe Joy of Sex, you still haven't the slightest clue how to bring your girlfriend to climax—well, that's gotta suck for her. But do not despair; there is in fact a very simple solution to your problem: Instead of all that silly human pretzel nonsense, you'll just have to give her what you know she really wants—that is, to be held down by the nape of her neck and forced to fixate on some filthy gang bang porno while to the deafening laments of the Smashing Pumpkins you give her a good hard rear-entry ramming with a gigantic black gangsta-dildo—one with a shiny, oversized metallic gold tip—and loudly, repeatedly demand to know if you're the best she's ever had. Plus she'll absolutely love it if you don't even bother to let the dog out, because trust me, being attacked in midst of your petting by a howling, growling, frenzied canine will indeed take her to soaring new heights of sexual excitement.
When attempting to return a used vibrator, be sure to inform the dyke behind the counter that you were unable to get your girlfriend off with it because the uneven seam between the shaft and tip caused her some discomfort.
(Each time I've come out to someone as a blogger, I've made a point of qualifying that all the whiny adolescent angst I post is purposely exaggerated—that I'm poking fun at myself for indulging in this sort of melodramatic, attention-seeking behavior, and thereby ridiculing all others who indulge in it without likewise acknowledging their crime. Yesterday, however, when out of boredom and curiousity I went scrolling for the very first time, I discovered just how badly I've been sucking at this. I mean, having previously read but a half dozen or so other blogs, I honestly had no clue.)
-noun Vast, online wasteland of self-parody so artless and brilliant no actual parody could ever possibly be made of it.
(Warning to other readers: You're but a click away from the most shockingly offensive smut on the entire internet.) Seriously now, assuming it's true, how could the untimely demise of Mr. Cool Ice possibly be explained by any non-violent scenario? To me it's a simple question of cause and effect.
Addendum 7.1.07: By the way Dagon, I'm not saying if he showed up at my door right now and demanded I suck his cock I wouldn't ask whether he'd like his ass eaten before, after, or both.
Addendum 8.1.07: Though not what I had in mind, being splattered by a truck is indeed violent. Plus in all likelihood it was no accident.
I was all wired up and sedated for treatment number six when my doctor inquired about the recent state of my memory. I assured him I was just fine—that there had been some forgetfulness the first week, but that all was back to normal as far as I could tell.
At this point he reminded me I was about to undergo treatment number twelve.
I have to confess, in total breach of resolution 16.11.06-5.12.06, I did make another desperate attempt to gain the attention of a certain sexy hunk of a Buddhist monk in the big house. It was my final shot at making a complete ass of myself in 2006, and sadly, I think I managed to pull it off. But please believe me, this was again a transient loss of equilibrium, nothing more, and I've since redoubled my resolve (for 2007) to accept the fact he truly does not want me in his life. Because let's face it, he's so high above us all in his lofty state of nirvana there's no way a needful, craven, earthly wretch like myself could ever hope to reach him. Indeed I'm simply not worthy. And I know I never will be, not in this life at least.
Oh well. Poor me. I can only pray that in my next incarnation I too will be a divine, mystical guru-convict.
1997's Pop is the onlyU2 album any self-respecting human being would ever even consider listening to, and if you beg to differ it can mean only one thing: that you, well, have no self-respect.
Addendum 1.1.07: Needless to say (but I'll enjoy saying it anyway), those of you who in the past 48 hours have listened to New Year’s Day and felt it to be a momentous, meaningful, moving experience are even more in need of a life than I am.
Why is it called trance? This track is the answer. (What I don't know is whether the crimson waif on the cover is vocalist Kate Cameron or just some model, so I'd be grateful if someone out there could please tell me.)
Noa Lembersky's voice, over one of the fattest breaks you'll ever hear, is simply heartbreaking.
Also, I've not previously mentioned It's No Good from Depeche Mode's criminally underrated album Ultra. Perhaps the deadliest track they've produced in their entire history, it was inducted upon release nearly ten years ago.
Addendum 30.12.06: Ok seriously, the Chakra track is an ABSOLUTE FUCKING BOMB—I mean, I've been playing it non-stop for two days now and I'm still nowhere near sick of it. And I'll even go so far as to say we might have a slight problem on our hands. Uh-oh.
I just realized It was a song with your middle name in the title, and I happened to be listening to it only a few hours after sending you an email in which I called you by your middle name for the first time ever.
I too feel it's time we quit denying the palpable tension that lately pervades our every encounter, and quit sublimating the raging desire we so obviously feel for one another in all these silly little games we've for years been playing. While it's true I deeply cherish our friendship and know I'd be devastated by the loss of what we have, I simply cannot help wondering if there could be more—much, much more. And so I think it's time we finally throw caution to the wind and find out once and for all.
Because the truth is, I've been waiting since fourth grade to passively revel in your fiery agressiveness, and I just don't think I can wait any longer. So please hurry.
(And while you're at it, pick me up a cheeseburger.)
Lord, what good can I possibly say about this one? I mean, it has to be one of the most truly awful albums I've ever truly loved—an utterly perverse orgy of rock, house, breakbeat, hip-hop, and synth-pop,plus even a brief nod to gospel, featuring cheap, gimmicky guest appearances galore, including, God help me, one of the now grown-up characters from NSync, not to mention the most painfully juvenile yet eminently lipsynchable lyrics conceivable on every single track.
In other words, it's fucking brilliant. So get it now. Because however hard he may try, BT simply can do no wrong.
I don't know who you are, or where you came from, or if I'll ever see you again. Sometimes I'm not even sure you're real. And whatever did happen between us, gradually it's all being taken from me.
But l still have this: Every fourth Friday I stare at my dad in the dark. I see this person, now at the end of his life, who treats me like he brought me into this world when he didn't, who still cries when my own tears have long since dried up completely. And for those few seconds I love him so much it hurts—so much I can hardly stand it. Then I come home and I see your picture...
Day 331 of my 31st year now marks a most regrettable milestone: That's when, as far as I can tell, I was visited for the first time ever by honest to God hatred. As of this posting I'm still very much under its spell—awake for most of three days, way beyond reach of all reason and self-interrogation, not to mention totally impervious to both Xanax and Jägermeister. The whole time in fact I've just been sitting here, chewing my lip and grinding my teeth as my mind spirals further and further into chaos—what I can only describe as the inexorable yet sublime rush of my humanity slipping away. And the longer it continues, the more hopelessly addicted I become; indeed it's almost as gratifying as love. At the same time, however, it is a cruel paradox, as I can assure you my feelings of shame and self-loathing are even more overwhelming than my desire to punish the object of this rage. What's more, I find it beyond comprehension, and frankly just plain scary, that I could possibly feel this way about someone I've never even met.
But make no mistake—I do in no uncertain terms wish him all the most hellish suffering imaginable and then some. Because he possesses what in the first 11,284 days of my existence on this earth is the most precious creature I've ever seen or touched, and being the despicable maggot that he is, he actually possesses her from a fucking prison cell. The clincher, though, is that his blindness to this amazing treasure is exactly what put him in his current predicament. So to be perfectly clear, it's not at all a matter of his wickedness; rather, his stupidity, his stupidity, and also his utter stupidity are what inspire this pitiless derision. Perhaps that makes me all the more depraved; I don't know. But I do know that nothing less than a lengthy audience with this piece of human refuse can possibly stop all the venom coursing through me. And so it's already being arranged. In the meantime, I do apologize for my own lower lifeform-like behavior. And I promise I will be a person again as soon as possible.
Thanks for reading by the way.
Addendum 5.12.06: Three weeks later it’s apparent he won’t be at all bothered with my request. And though I’m tempted to send a more urgent follow-up, perhaps with a few juicy disclosures that would virtually guarantee an acknowledgement, for now I’ve decided just to let the matter rest.
While I could easily start a whole separate blog entirely for the purpose of expounding on my freakish obsession with this track, for now I'll just give the most concise clinical description of the FFP1 fetish I've so far come up with—and that is, I've no doubt whatsoever my IQ would be several points higher but for the sheer cortical mass I devote solely to the perpetual if unconscious contemplation of this one hallowed sound recording scarcely more than five minutes in total duration.
Or in other words, I think it seriously kicks ass. (What I simply cannot get my mind around is the fact it was released when I was only 14 years old.)
Kites I will fly a yellow paper sun in your sky, when the wind is high, when the wind is high. I will float a silken silver moon near your window, if your night is dark, if your night is dark.
In letters of gold on a snow white kite, I will write,
I love you,
and send it soaring high above you, for all to read.
I will scatter rice paper stars in your heaven, if there are no stars, if there are no stars. All of these and seven wonders more will I fly, when the wind is high, when the wind is high.
–noun Exclusive term of endearment bestowed upon a female human with whom I have an obsession of the highest possible intensity.
–usage note Though alternately referring to different individuals, this appellation is essentially a proper nickname subject to all the same rules and conventions. I should also point out that MONKEY by itself is an expressly informal, somewhat gender-flexible epithet; it too may convey affection, but with a platonic or much more casual connotation.
Addendum 7.1.07: The term has now been downgraded to an online alias. Nothing could possibly feel more perfect on my lips than her actual name.
-noun The administration of a strong electric current that passes through the brain to induce convulsions and coma, possibly causing memory loss sufficiently severe as to recommend creation of a weblog for recording past and present experiences that might otherwise be forgotten.