The record temperatures have brought me the excuse I need to be an unbelievable slug. I am still in the sweats I slept in and have my feet under blankets.
Really, apart from the suckass weather, every now and again I completely enjoy being a recluse. Fuck you world, I’m not all up into that “interaction” folks seem so proud about.
Sometimes the show you’re in goes well, and you feel like you are part of the wellness. Then, at the end of the show, someone whose HBO Special you watched, obviously from the distance of television, shakes your hand and gives you the “good job” nod.
Yup, it’s unabashedly unhip to admit it, but that’s alright.
Sometimes the Great and Secret Show is fucking fun.
I am so totally back from California. It’s fucking freezing in Boston, the kind of air outside that makes your lungs hurt when you breathe.
The other thing that reminds me that I am indeed home is bowel movements. I know, what the fuck is she getting all fecal about? It’s that travel thing, when your body says, “hey this is a different place, I don’t think I feel like shitting.” Maybe there was some shy bowely bit from being with M. But, he lived with me right before he left, and it seemed like we were comfortable enough with one another that shit happened, as it were. We weren’t all freaky comfortable, getting our scat on, just simple human beings living simple lives. Now that I am home, though, my bowels sense the freedom and move, baby, move. (Basically, this entire paragraph was an excuse for me to link to one of the baser human fetishes, because isn’t that what the Internet is all about. But, alas, it seems at the very least imprudent to link to a porn site while on the work computer, so I didn’t go there. Not to mention I don’t really want to see what that free trial tour would look like.)
I think the whole paragraph above is based on the interesting traffic a Google search can bring. Among the searches that have brought people here are “private homepage gay scat,” “‘bathed together’+’growing up,'”‘child free’+breeders+asia,” “keep my priorities straight at work,” “WACKY COMEDY” and possibly my favorite, because I would search it, too, “seconal valley of the dolls.”
I also like “brother sister story pics sally fuck -xxx -free -tgp -anal -incest” for two reasons. One, that is fucking specific. What is it like, you need an anal story w/pics, but even better would be if it was incestuous, but not just incestuous, but brother and sister. And it should be good. And, the sister’s name would be Sally, I guess (unless “sally” means something I haven’t learned yet, which is probably just as well, since I’m not that kind of a freak).
The second reason is because of the Sally part. Since it figures the Sally I know would turn up in fucked up searches.
I apologize to the entire Internet if anyone is trying to search for something useful (such as “Easy Glide Mop,” “fun surveys -paid” and “getting in the mood”) and found me instead.
Here is something close to what my version of hell would entail:
I think that I would quickly get thrown out of the house for my uncoachable attitude. But I hope it wouldn’t be for mocking the Mormon chick who was walking around with a bindi, because Hindus don’t seem nearly as fucked up as Mormons.
I’ve uploaded the pics from my New Year’s adventure. M., if you check this out and you want any printed or need higher quality jpegs, let me know.
Everyone else, at least I haven’t held you captive in my den with a slide show.
Here’s the first draft of my letter to American Airlines:
To Whom It May Concern:
Your airline blows. NO, really, I meant it. It sucks beyond compare. Blows, blows, blows. I hate you.
Sincerely,
D
I think it needs some editing.
Here’s the deal. There was a slight delay in my flight to San Francisco, but it was mostly smooth sailing. While there, M. and I lived a charmed existence. Parking spaces in front of busy cafes, no more than 10 minutes average wait time to be seated for food, friendly service, parking on New Year’s Eve directly next to throngs of people waiting for fireworks. Even the one moment of urban suspicion and bad karma on the BART, where I felt like a little country rube victimized by fast talking confidence men, it turned out that my ticket was crumbled at the bottom of my pocket by my own misguided doings, not taken from me at all.
And, now, I’m back in town, and it has been one fucking ordeal after another to get here. A cancelled flight, delays and more fucking delays on the flights I did get, inexplicable delays in doors even opening upon arrival, a whole plane’s luggage missing in the disorganization of Logan Airport, a long cab queue. At the end of this bleak rainbow, my bathroom hot water is mysteriously off, so no shower for me. And, truly the capper, not only has the emergency plumbing folks not called me back, but there was just a horn honking outside my door. I peak, in vain hope of plumbing salvation, but like a true angel of darkness, a veritable beacon shining on the absolute shit my day has been, it is my former neighbor, Jimmy. A townie of epic proportion who makes the alledged Cambridge toughs Damon and Affleck of “Good Willing Hunting” reputation look every step the Nancy boys they really are.
He doesn’t so much as stalk me, as he does appear and fade away at irregular intervals. I would be nervous, as I am with his ex-con little brother who truly did stalk me for a while, if it were not for the fact that a “Fuck you, Jimmy, don’t ever come by at 1 a.m. honking again,” seems to be a sufficient deterrent. Over years, perhaps even a decade, a “No, get out of here. No, I’m not going to smoke crack with you, drink tequila with you, have a beer in the middle of the night, or otherwise do whatever it is ‘you people’ do,” seems a protective charm.
So, that’s the fucking writing on the wall. Good times, easy laughter and citrus fruit (with M.) versus delays, snow, no hot water and stalkers (alone). D’ya think the energies that run the universe are communicating here?
Yeah, I love my life.
Today’s the last real day of my jetsetting journey west, I fly out very early tomorrow morning.
I have to think about this place and decide if it fits.
Once we find coffee, we’re heading into the city for fun, adventure and anin-n-outburger, I am told. I can’t not think of “No time for the old in-out, love. I’ve just come to read the meter.” when it’s mentioned.
Today saw the valley and the redwood forest and lots of ribbon of highway. Yeah, baby, still hanging out Left Coast style.
Besides see the ancestral home of the laptop I type on at this exact moment (Cupertino), I saw M.’s new place on the border of San Jose and Cupertino, his new office and had lunch with the boss, the mountains, the gates of Paul Masson (responsible for my earliest awareness of the family importance of a cheap, jug wine), Stanford my friends’ house in San Leandro (K. and M. have been working hard on their house and it looks fabu) and had great sushi in Hayward.
In and among the adventures, I touched and smelled giant, centuries’ old redwoods, picked oranges from the orange tree in the front yard of M.’s new digs, ran my fingers through three kinds of sage and smelled the spice in the indigenous garden around chez K. and M. and put a lemon in my pocket from their tree.
Meanwhile, M. and I have been together round the clock, and despite my best intentions we still seem to be laughing and chatting together without friction. (OK, there was that moment in which M., surrounded by mountains and redwoods, stopped to admire not the scenery, but his own visage in the mirror. But, his new glasses do look good on him. I was aghast at his vanity. For me, “shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” became M. versus redwood. I mean he’s cute and all, but would Woody Guthrie have written about him?)
Because I cannot accept relative happiness at face value, I let M. know that I now feel likely that one of us will have a terminal illness (how else to end what seems like some pretty cool, endless compatibility? Answer: someone must die tragically).
M.’s response: “I hope it’s not me.”