I guess I'm Sarcastic

You're Totally Sarcastic

You sarcastic? Never! You're as sweet as a baby bunny. Seriously, though, you have a sharp tongue - and you aren't afraid to use it. And if people are too wimpy to deal with your attitutde, then too bad. So sad.

How Sarcastic Are You?

Another Sunday

There's something very rejuvinating about mornings, dont you think?

I have come to a few conclusions and absolutes:

1.) If new guy wants to be friends then so be it. But I do actually want to be friends with him, not the kind of friend where we say friends and never see one another again. Let's face it, I dont have alot of friends in this city, especailly good friends.

2.) If new guy wants to give it a try and actually be in a relationship or some variation there-of, then I'm all for it. I would rather be with him in a romantic subtext then a plutonic one but at this point I'll take what I can get.

Does this sound ridiculous? Am I one of those people who needs someone? I have all these questions. I dont know. My friends all told me to wait until I have a year under my belt here before starting a relationship with someone. I got here on June 25th, moved into my apartment and said goodbye to my parents on July 17th and if my math is correct that means I've been here 7 months last Wednesday. Maybe they were right?


In other news!!!!


Today I had brunch with the Sunday Times at Around The Clock. It's one of my favorite restaurants in New York. Its the only place I can think of where I can get 2 eggs, home fries, toast, bacon and coffee for $5.95 its great. When my parents come to visit we go there alot.

From there I walked west on 9th street until I got Waverly Pl. (This may be a tedious read.) I then took Waverly to Three Lives & Co. bookstore; my favorite in the city. No the world. Its small with a big red door. The floor boards squeek affectionatly, and they manage to have every book I could ever want. Even some I dont, but thats not their fault.

Now I'm home with my purchases. The coffee is brewing, N.P.R. is playing softly and I have my notebook out on my desk. If the story is worth saving I promise I'll blog it.

Have a great Sunday.

Big Firsts

I have found myself feeling like a giant smelly bottle of Santorum. I have in this moment become one of them. Those people who get into fights and then feel the need to talk about it. (I guess for everyone thats not in my family thats normal.) So instead of talking about it, I'm blogging about it.

The New Guy and I got into what can only be described as an altercation, or maybe a misunderstanding. Anyway, I will digress: I was planning on having a special night. I was going to go to Miyagi and get some some food, rent a movie from the evil that is blockbuster, and head uptown to hang out with him, and thussly make-out like teenagers.

We were texting back and forth as I rode the train into Hatters and waited for him to tell me he was home. Somewhere between the Manhattan Bridge and Union Sq. he hit a bump. "I'm kinda in weird mood tonight", he messaged.

Now upon hearing this I knew immediately that my plans had been squashed. I'm not one to get cry over spilled milk, never have been, but missed beef negemaki is a whole other thing completely.

We discussed it at length, the actual problem being what I had suspected: I'm 19 he's what some would consider too old to be dating a 19 year old. There were no resolutions to this problem tonight besides that I was going to go back to Brookers and he was going to bed. He's been working all week on a new ad campaign for a company that's basically been a stick in rear (not so comfy.).

I'm not bothered by the fact that we didn't hang out tonight, though I was looking forward to it, what I am disappointed in is myself. I've always kind of prided myself on the fact that I didnt exactly act my age or like some stereotypical teenger. What I mean is that I'm rational enough to be one to slam doors, or play mind games, I dont say things I'll regret because the idea of saying something cruel enough to regret scares me shitless. But I did it, I said something unbelievably mean, or at the time it seemed that way.

There's a huge difference between this man and Bob. In alot of ways I thank and blame Bob for the way I'm acting. When I met him (bob) I was looking for someone interesting to introduce me to New York. Someone to show me around, take me to places I would never go with people my own age, and most importantly someone to care about me while I'm making my way here all alone.

It was in that scenario inevitable that I would develope feelings for Bob. How could he have not seen it coming. Then one day it happened: the big deal, the thing that made me certain that Bob would never ever love me. I had written about on here, but I dont think I may have said it in passing.

Bob had invited me to a screening of the film Infamous and we had met at his place a few hours before hand and of course had sex. Well we went to the movie, and walk from 66th to his place in midtown. We talked about Capote, Fitzgerald, Parker, Hemingway, yadda yadda. Anyway, it was unclear from the tone of conversation or body language whether I was coming back up to spend the night. We stopped outside of his door, and as he was pulling out his keys a neighbor walked up and unlocked the door.

Bob turned to me and STUCK OUT HIS HAND saying "Good night, kid" like fucking Humphery Bogart. He disapeared into the building and left me standing there thinking "what a fucking pussy". Now I understand that he's and important person that is noticed by a few people in town, but come on, seriously. He could have at least hugged me or something. Friends I havent slept with hug me.

What does this have to do with new guy? Everything. 1.) New guy and Bob live on the same block. 2.) New guy and Bob are both older than me. 3.) New guy and Bob are both amazing kissers. (I may be getting off track here).

But when new guy kisses me he's doing it because he wants to be near me, he wants to kiss me. When Bob kissed me he may have wanted to kiss me as well, but everytime we interacted there was a predispostion of sex. And though I've spent the night at New Guys apartment a few times we havent had sex, we're too busy talking till all hours of the night about our lives, and out likes and dislikes.

In short I feel awful for being an asshole and acting my age when I had no intention to. Other lessons learned : 1.) Bob = asshole 2.) New guy = great catch 3.) guilty feelings= impossibly long blog posts.

I'm Happy!

Hey there amigos. I just wanted to let everyone know that I am great. But I've learned something incredibly valuable in the last few days. Sleeping in your own bed is nice (this is true), but sleeping in someone elses bed is alot nicer, especially if they're there too.

Oh and if they make a movie about him, a younger Campbell Scott would play him.

So its Tuesday

I was reading my horroscope in one of those crappy New York papers online while I was in MI, and it said that January was a time for me to stumble upon romance. Or something as equally cheesey. All I have to say is "fuck". Ladies and Gents his name is Chris.

Now you are ALL aware of my penchant for older men, no? He works in advertising, he's older than me and than most. Anyway, I was at his apartment on Saturday evening, and we basically made out like school kids for 3 hours then with a promise to speak again soon we parted ways.

29 hours later we're talking on the phone (completely ignoring the 72 hour rule) and making plans to see a movie. Those plans occur tonight. I'm meeting him soon, and hopefully things will go well. He cooks, he dances embarrassingly, and he's been to Japan, England, and Morocco.

The only catch I can see, besides our age differences which really is not a big deal to me, is that he live (get this) on the same block as Bob. Now I know that strange things happen to me, but this has got to be the strangest. I'm not letting it get in my way or anything, but it needs to be pointed out.

Wish me luck!

Crash and Burn

My blog has died.

I'm trying to think of ways to rebuild it, make it stronger, faster, better.

Is that how the qoute went?

a poem

Who came before (New York City) Ocean Ave 1/8/07

At midnight I am nothing
neither alive nor awake.
Spectral and concentrate.

I listen out the window as the car alarms ring out
as the car horns shout,
at hookers on the their lunch breaks.

I listen through the door,
as the neighbors try to get in,
pushing my door back and forth.

I listen through the floor while my neighbors fuck loudly
there is not peace at 2 am
there is no time for sleep.

I watch as the sun breaks over the building
imagining the view from the Yorkville
But brooklyn has its charms.

II

Miles Davis plays loudly, Gershwin cresendoes into oblivion.
I check my window locks, and draw my blinds again.
I hum Etta James as I find my keys.

I check my mail box, find Fitzgerald with my bills,
Parker is in the New Yorker, I read it on the Q,
Ginsberg sits quietly watching the Williamsburg bridge.

Patti Smith walks with me down Delancy,
and then leaves me there for Mapplethorpe,
But I'm meeting Joey Ramone for coffee at 10

Basquait works for Three Lives & Company
He recomends the Warhol Biography
But I go with Pollock, he makes more sense.

III

I ran into Audrey on 57th, offered her some Cresants
she's on a diet, and she was wearing black.
I'll go ask Capote.

Whittam asked me where I was from,
He sat down while Joey was in the Bathroom.
I told the Middle of nowwhere, somewhere east of Queens.

Lennon and Ono, what a wonderful couple.
But they're nowhere near as nice as Julius and Ethel
Davidson needs work on his social skills.

IV

Back on Ocean I listen for the gun fights,
for the fist fights
for the robbers.

I listen to the honkers honking,
the hookers hooking
and the po po po-poing

I listen to the creeks from the ceiling
the moans of the evening
and the wind from the world.

I crawl into bed, as Miles blares out another,
as Coltrane bears his soul
as Etta and Ella and Billie bear all.

I think of the middle of now where
how I got here
where I'm going

I think of who came before.


I dont know if this poem makes any sense but there it is.

A Ruff Draft

The land was flat along the highway. All around it was grass, greyish-yellow grass that reminded him of Iowa, reminded him of why he left Iowa. The old pick up he was driving looked more rust than automobile and the radio was on the fritz again. You would never have been able to tell where he was. To be completely honest he was quite sure where he was, but he was away from it. All of it.

Clint's cigarrett was burnign down fast. It was his last one. And with no radio, not heater, and no company, he needed something to take his mind off of what he was doing. The highway was sparse with traffic and clint liked it that way. It was lazy, coming and going, though he was only going at the moment. He wasnt coming to anything, just going somewhere.

A white moving van passed him on the right. Clint looked at the driver. He was a built man, mid forties possibly. He was smoking what looked to me a rather large joint, and nodded to Clint as he passed. It wasnt an angry nod, though it wasnt a very hospitable nod either. It just was what it was. Everything just was what it was.

The note he had left didnt say much, he wanted to keep it vague, for the sake of all things. It was what it was: a goodbye note. The details he purposely left out would be discovered by his parents perhaps. Most likely not. They were good people, he loved them, but he knew what he needed. His friends wouldnt understand why now. Things there were good for him. He was young, fit, and fairly attractive. People liked him, he was polite to strangers, held doors open for women of all ages, and called men sir, or Mr.

His friend knew him to be spontaneous. They knew that he would do this one day. But they had wrongfully assumed that he would need an excuse to do it. An excuse to leave home.

"The world is a big place," he had told them once, "If I'm going to see all of it, I better start now."

So here he was on a highway that he couldnt name, in a state he couldnt place and in a truck he didnt rightfully own. Next to him on the seat was a duffle bag with 3 pairs of pants, 4 pair of socks, 4 shirts, 6 pair of underwear, and 2 sweat shirts. He had his tooth brush, his deoderant, and a cassette tape of Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin Bob Dylan. His single subject red notebook had slid to the floor during a fast turn; the pen stuck into the ringlets. His Nikon 35mm camera was safely kept in the overside glove compartment. His Zippo lighter was on the dashboard. The light was black, shiny and worn.

The highway stretched out in front of him, but at the moment he needed cigarettes.

What I Just stepped in

A giant, white, dead crab in the middle of Church Avenue.
I love today none the less

(I'm not witty today)

So I really suck at spelling. The three of you know that, you cope with it, because you care about the overall message. My punctuation is really kind of an art form. I say this because I use semi-colons like Jackson Pollock might use the color yellow. Periods come as frequently as pomegranite soup, or something as equally disgusting.

The general consensus (did I mess that up?) among my friends is that I write better than I talk. I'm the kid who says "like" fifty times just discribing his lunch order. When I talk I get too excited about what I'm trying to say and forget to actually say it. When I write words like "privy", and "ensconced" come to me easily. They're magical letters that float together in my alphabet soup.

I've been thinking about what I really honestly want to do with my life. This being the time when people usually think about things like that. I've wanted, since the moment I picked up "Where The Red Fern Grows". I wanted to make 11 year old boys cry in their beds. I want to make people laugh like David Sedaris, and cry like Tim O'Brien.

Now I'm not so sure. I dont know if I could actually make someone cry with beautiful prose, if in fact my prose is beautiful at all. Maybe I should be a journalist? But the hours, the endless fact checking and rechecking, the years it takes before you actually get to write what you want. And all I would want to write is four page exposes about Darfur, and Burma, and follow ups on the Dahlai Lama. I wouldnt want to write about Jeffy's auto-mart. I hope there isnt a place like that in exsistence, its probably in Michigan.

I remember reading The Hours and hearing Richard talk about how he wanted to be a writer. To write about a moment, the whole moment, something so small and significant broken down into letters and words; loved somehow defined by ink on a piece of paper. He couldnt do it, and he knew he couldnt do it. I fear that I cant do it either. I know that I've been in love, with James. I know what it feels like to need someone there with you, I know lonliness. I know what it feels like to be emotionally abandoned by a parent. I know the void of having ceased to love someone. I know the slow and painful process of healing. I know that in alot of ways I am a soul covered in bandaids.

But could I have a character like that? Could I "create" a person who had fears, and needs and wants; hopes and dreams crushed by life, a Charles Foster Kane, a David Copperfield. The thought of being responsible for the lives of others, fictional but still people, is so frightful to me. I make them cry, I make them laugh, I make them fuck; and in turn you, the audience, cries, laughs, and gets off in response.

I scare myself into writer's block sometimes. But the need to tell a story prevails and I write more. I write journal entries, poems(bad poems), and I draft novels and stories.

My friend MP told me about students of his that want to be writers "because they think writers dont actually work". Its true. Many people dont want to actually have to sit and write the book, let alone write it well. I want to write the book, I have written a book, or a novella, but I'm afraid of doing it half assed. I'm afraid of writing about true love and having my audience laugh, or worse pretend to understand and then laugh.

Books are crowning achievments for anyone. They're often overlooked as something alot of people do after Grad School. But its work, hard work. Rewrites, sudden moments of inspiration, late nights spent thinking "Just until I get to the heart of it. For every 10 pages written 2 are saved and thats really good.

I want to write about it all. I want to write about true love, and talk at length about a perfect cup of coffee, or those little moments that you never tell anyone about. I want to make money from it, so I can travel and write about traveling. I want to describe riding on an elephant, and running from a bear.

I will be a writer, in the sense that I will put words on page describing and event, Ink on paper. But will I be Cormac McCarthy? Will I be Joan Didion, or Ernest Hemingway. Will I be Keroauc, or Ginsberg? Or will I be discovered after I stopped writing, found in on the few remaining bookstores by a young boy struggeling to find himself in a world thats moving too fast. I can only hope for that.

Life is short, and I'm not one to giving up something that I really love. So if I dont ever write "The Great Gatsby" or "On The Road" I may end up being okay with that. What I wont be okay with is if I never tried to write. Fear is healthy, thats why people have dreams, because they're liberating and frightening.

I'm going to try, I'm going to write, and I'm going to get published. It may not be "Ulysses" but its something, right? There's honor in the trying. I just hope my editor doesnt mind that I cant spell.

So I'm back in a New York mood

I'm back!
The trip was good I guess. I got to spend some much needed time with old friends, and have some new adcventures. I had a Christmas dinner almost void of arguments (those came later), and I rang in the New Year with a few people I wasnt sure I would ever see again.

But I'm back in Manhattan and things are good, because here I'm no one. In Michigan I sort of felt like Neal Cassidy, always provoking the real geniuses to work harder, and live larger. Here I'm just a college student who works too hard, and doesnt have enough time to read The Sun Also Rises for the 5th time.

I got back in touch with friends here. Some of whom I've decided to leave behind me because I'm almost certain my wanting to be friends with them is hurting the actual friendship we could have had. I know that doesnt make sense but its what I'm saying.

When I'm in New York I never feel that New York feel, the feeling that connects all 0f those who live here. That New York feel. Riding the 6 train, walking down Broadway, spending the afternoon in Central Park. You all know what I'm talking about though, right? (At least those who live here.) When you watched The Devil Wears Prada and you saw them eating at Mayrose and you thought "they have really great omlettes" or when you watch Sex and the City and point out that your friend lives in that building, whichever building that may be.

It doesnt happen when youre in New York, its not that atmosphere that surrounds Manhattan, its an editorial New York. New York in print, on film, and in conversation.

I was considering moving somewhere else when my lease ends in June. But I dont think I can now. Because I understand what I'm part of now. I'm not a somebody here, I wont be for a long time, but with a friend who deals art, a friend in enterainment, an aquaintence in publishing I've unknowingly set myself up to become a somebody. Of course in New York there are no somebodies. Its how everyone else thinks of you. Those non-New Yorkers. Because we dont really give a shit who you are if youre walking too slow in front of us.

I heart New York. I love Manhattan, and Brooklyn. I'm not afraid of the Bronx, I tolerate Queens, and respect anyone who likes living on Staten Island. Will I ever leave New York. Of course I will. I want to live in Europe and Asia, I want to do relief work in Africa. I want to learn to surf on Bondi Beach, and go hiking in Nepal. I want to walk through Cambodia, and listen to friends play at a bar in London.

Life is too short to not do anything with it. I refuse to stop experiencing things just because I moved to New York when I was 18. With luck I will live past 100, and do not see Europe in 100 years in inexcusable in my book.

The book has been outlined, it is in a folder sitting on my desk/table/dvd rack, I'm hoping to do something with it soon, because all I have at the moment is time.

Happy New Year.

When you really miss something

I'm salivating. I'm going nuts thinking about it and my taste buds are starting to hate me. I have the biggest craving for two (not just one) wonderful things.
The first are the apple yogurt muffins at Universal News Cafe. I honestly think that Mel Gibson made them himself.
The second is the beef negamaki at the restaurant the Michael and I frequent. If Jesus was Japanese this is what heaven would taste like.

In other news I'm having an ultrasound tomorrow. Aparently I may have gaul stones, why is it that I can only pass the really difficult stuff?

Will write more later. I feel ill. This time I promise I wont disappear for 11 days.

New Years Resolutions

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!

It is the new year, 2007, lots a changes, and new adventures await me. I'm petrified, I really am. But at the same time I'm hopeful. Maybe this year I will find someone to love, because to be honest I am a little lonely. MaybeI will find the perfect apartment, because I really need to move. And maybe, just maybe, I will actually finish something I start writing and I wont hate it, because I really need to work more.

I need to go on a big trip. I know that is a certainty. I need to stop thinking about James, because its obvious that nothing is going to happen there, and frankly I dont think I really want it to.

But my Resolutions are as follows:

1.) Lose weight. I'm not over weight, I'm just out of shape, and I could stand to lose a few pounds.
2.) Stop smoking. I dont smoke habitually, but I use it as a cruch. When things get rough I my lighter is a lighting. Then I fall into a pattern and everything is just not good after that.
3.) Read more. I know this may sound a little unusual considering I read almost everyday, but I have a habit of buying books for comfort and then never reading them. When I read now I dont feel like I'm retaining anything.
4.) Run 4 days a week. I ran cross country through middle and high school. I know I'm busy but there's really no excuse for not running 30 mins a day.
5.) Be more charitable. I love buying presents for friends and I have lots of those Lance Armstrong wristbands but I hardly ever give to real charities.

I'm thinking of cutting down on the coffee intake also. I drink ALOT of coffee. Also I want to make more friends.

I think that sounds good.

Now I can sit and reflect on the end of one of the most important years of my life.

I wish you all a good 2007

The Midwest Part II

Kalamazoo, MI is fucking boring. I sleep, I eat, I thinking about sleeping and eating. I watch internet porn on my parents dial-up connection (those video clips take forever to download), and I talk to people about my life in New York. Conversations often go like this:

Midwesterner wearing brown and black: So How NEW YORK CITY!!!!!!!
Me: Its great, I have some really great friends there now.
MWBB: WOW I just cant imagine moving all that way. Weren't you scared?
Me: Yeah but thats why I did it.
MWBB(they cock their head a little): I dont get it.
Me: I left because the idea of leaving was scarry. I did it because I've never left before.
MWBB: OOOOOOOKKKAAAY(looking at me like I'm crazy)
Me: I just had to try something new, ya know?
MWBB(clearly needing to change the subject): So how's school? NYU, right?
Me: Schools great. I'm not going to NYU I'm going to smaller school, Brooklyn College.
MWBB:Oh yeah, sure, sure.
Me:Yeah its really great, Michael Cunningham teaches there, Allen Ginsberg taught there also.
MWBB: Who?
Me: They're writers.
MWBB: oh ok. So do you live in Brooklyn?
Me: Yeh.
MWBB: Wow that must be scary? Like in the ghetto I mean.
Me: I guess it would be if you lived in a ghetto.
MWBB: Dont you live in Brooklyn?
ME: Yeh.
MWBB: Nevermind


I have to drive 20 miles for Starbucks.

The Midwest

In New York I am a boy from the midwest. You all know that, its on the subtitle for the blog. But in the midwest I am a man from the city.

In the midwest my life is exciting to people, my job is exciting, and my relationships are exciting. In New York I'm po-dunk(Spelling?), I work in retail, and I'm single.

Its tough getting used to this drastic juxtaposition(*disclaimer: Juxtaposed is my favorite word.) Its weird thinking that here(currently in MI) I'm somebody and my life is on track. and There I'm just a kid with a shit apartment who makes $8 and hour.

I make more money than anyone I graduated with but because I live in New York I have less to show for it. But I have no regrets. I'm glad that I left Michigan, because I'm not a someone in NYC yet, but I'm well on my way to being something, what ever that is.

I'm not saying that I'm better than peope here. I would never think that I'm better than people here. I'm not, I'm really not. But my life is so different. In New York my friends are museum directors and foremost professors and the guys whose writing the fucking oscars and here is still kids in college getting drunk all the time and learning about how to live in the world.

I wanted the culture shock. I got the culture shock. I've accepted and changed because of it. I'm different now. I was different the day I stepped foot in New York knowing that I wasnt leaving until Thanksgiving.

When I come home I spend the whole time re-adjusting to life in the midwest. And missing the sirens, and the buildings. The fast paced moving. There is no time in Manhattan to be still, everyday is a new day, you cant slow down because there's always someone behind you.

But it would be wrong to say that I didnt like comeing back. I like seeing people I knew so long ago(it seems). The look of suprise when I walk through the door. But I feel like people expect me to tell them something profound, or something exciting; to give a Nora Ephron-esque explanation of what New York is to me. I dont know if I can do that. When I do, I name drop, or talk about album signings, or running into Kevin Spacey, and Sarah Jessica Parker on the street, I feel like a superficial ass.

Its going to take a few days to get into the swing of things. I dont know if it will be an easy 2 weeks. At the moment it feels like 20 years. But it has to get better, right?

A thing that turned into my salute to sundays.

I am a collector of many things: Coffee mugs, classic novels, sneakers. I am also a collector of good days. Or maybe good moments. It seems that I am having another one.

I am a lover of Sundays. Easy breezes, and great coffee, the Times Book Review all combine to create a mood.

I sleep until 10. I'm a morning person, so sleeping past 9 makes me feel as though I've ruined my whole day. I drink an unbelievable amount of coffee, and sit on the floor reading Arts & Leisure.

I turn my phone off. Open my windows and watch the sun move across my floor as I curl up, cuddled with a book. Its a sort of bliss I dont know 6 days a week.

I wait, sitting calmly. Listening to NPR on my teeny tiny radio. I feel plugged in, universal.

I know I am a citizen. On Sundays the world, natural as it may be, is one with me.

My mom is kicking herself

My mother is extremely over dramatic. My mother is Mommy dearest in the sense that she intimidates everyone with her drama.

So my brother moved out, and then came back two days later. That in itself is funny, but the thing that really cracks me up is that in those two days my mom went on a rampage. Not only did she tear down all the christmas decorations! she returned ALL of the presents!!!! Luckily all I asked for was a better apartment.

My mom now has to go and buy everything she had already bought, most of it she cant find anymore. And the bittersweet revenge my brother gets is that he has to help her order the rest of the present from Amazon and BN.com.

Matt

I talked to my mom today, she was very upset. "Did any of your friends ask you to stay in New York for Christmas?" she asked.
"No, of course not. Why?" I asked.
"because there's not much to come back to here." she said, sounding hollow.
"I dont understand."
"Matt moved out today." he voice cracked, just a little bit.
"Explain."
And she did.

Matt is my brother. I am the youngest of five: three girls, two boys. My youngest sister is still 14 years my senior. Matt is my brother, my sister are more like aunts. Shitty, wicked aunts at that. My sister's came over to my house for a visit. A very rare visit. And they did what they usually do, they belittled my brother because they can.

Matt isnt the smartest, or the most handsome, or the most charming. Matt will never be truly successful, maybe not evey truly happy. He knows this, and he hates it. My sister will take this and exploit it, like gangreen in a open sore. "You're worthless" "you're not going to be anything." "you're too fat, no one will hire you." And for the record, my sister's, not skinny.

They started to fight, my brother out numbered, my parents not really helping him out. He'd had enough. He was done. He packed the stuff he knew he'd need, and then he was gone. No phone, no pager. No way to contact him.

I dont know exactly what he's thinking right now. But if he's thinking the same thing I thought when I put my parents into a cab to JFK the day they left me here to live by myself, if its along those lines. He's feeling for the first time, really scared, and really alive.

(not title worthy)

*Disclaimer: I hate that I need to title every entry. Don't the people at blogger know that its really hard to come up with a title that is both satirical and witty?(or is something satirical automatically witty?)

On to the real topic of discussion.

Things these days seem good. I'm sitting in Universal News eating an apple bran yogurt muffin that tastes like God himself not only baked it, but baked it just for me. I have new books in my green Barnes & Noble bag, along with the New Yorker and the Washington Square literary quarterly. And I'm about to list things for ya'll.

My Favorite book: The Hours By Michael Cunningham
Favorite play: Proof by David Auburn
Favorite movie: Magnolia directed by P.T. Anderson
Favorite poem: four preludes on playthings of the wind by Carl Sandburg
Favorite food: Sushi
Favorite place from my past: Academey st. kalamazoo, MI.
Favorite place from the present: Union Sq. Manhattan.
Favorite restaurant: Miyagi on west 13th and 8th avenue.
Favorite song: "this is the sea" by the waterboys.
Favorite line from a movie: "The price you pay for bringing up my Chinese or American heritage as a negative is: I collect your fucking head. Just like this fucker here. Now if any of you sons of bitches HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY, NOWS THE FUCKING TIME!!! I didnt think so." --Oren Ishii in Kill Bill V. 1.

Harsh realities

So I've realized a harsh reality: Gay cinema sucks. I mean really bad. Its always about someone with AIDS, or someone wh0 gets gay bashed, or someone who becomes a circuit boy in Miami or L.A. and is fond of the nickname "K hole". Where have all the cowboys gone?

I think I should write a gay movie. Not to sound full of myself but I certainly wouldnt want people to think that we all have AIDS, Bruises, and Tara Reid's phone number.

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I have been to almost every bookstore in Manhattan looking for this fucking book. I'm going nuts. It's "The Page Turner" by David Leavitt. I first heard of it when I was watching previews on a dvd from a terrible gay movie called "200 American". (In its defense it was a no budget film.) There was a film adaptation called "Food of Love" and the movie looks really good. Compelling and well done. Plus the acting seems amazing. So I heard it was adapted from Leavitt's book and took off on a journey across Manhattan. To no avail (insert french qoute from Angel's in America).

So I've basically been on a literary witch hunt(not as fun as the real thing) and I'm almost completely burned out. Almost, I still have enough energy to order it off the internet along with the movie. Merry Christmas to me!