Thursday, February 1, 2001
Through Metafilter I learned that Jack Saturn has written his final blog entry. I’d never really read his site before, but I clicked on the link and read the piece. Wow — he’s a damn fine writer.
Ever since I began blogging, I’ve come across various blogs that are so well written that it makes me envious. I thought I was a good writer. But then I look at people’s sites and I see that they have such a better sense of irony than me, a better sense of wit, of humor, a more creative use of language. My writing style tends to be too honest and straightforward. I present my thoughts but I don’t do it creatively — I do it honest and straightforward, like I’m analyzing. Like I’m being a therapist. Where’s the writer? Why all the scientific analysis? Why can’t I just hop onto flights of fancy and have fun with it? Why so earnest?
Tonight I bought Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. It’s supposed to be an amazing sci-fi novel, supposed to be the best sci-fi novel of the 1990’s, one reviewer wrote. I haven’t read science fiction in ages. When I was a kid, I was into math, and computers, and D&D, and the Lord of the Rings; but I grew up to be gay, a fan of American history, of classical music, of The New Yorker. When I was in middle school I was a fan of both DC Comics and “Days of our Lives.” Anything strange about that? Comic books and soap operas — they’re both about storytelling and interwoven plotlines. But one is typically seen as masculine and the other as feminine. Batman submerged his emotions, his grief over his parents’ death, so he could capture criminals. But the Bradys and the Hortons and their travails — that’s all about emotions. Bathos. If Batman had acknowledged all the emotions built up inside him, it would have killed him.
I see myself as eclectic and consider that one of my strengths. I’m an intellectual omnivore. And lately I’ve regained an interest in computers and technology and so forth. Lately I’ve wished that I’d been an engineer in college, that I’d majored in Computer Science. I know nothing about C++ and right now I wish I did. And I’ve wanted to be a computer geek. Math was my best subject as a kid — so clean, so perfect, you were either right or wrong and you didn’t have to argue about it. Maybe I’m feeling nostalgic for all the stuff I was so good at. Recently my dad said to me that, with all my interest in computers and math as a kid, he thought I was going to grow up to become an engineer or mathematician or something similar. Maybe I’m trying to fulfill that. Maybe this is just another flirtation, one in a long line of many. It wouldn’t surprise me if it were.
I still will read Snow Crash.
12:46 AM | Comments Off I’ve added something else to this site — now you can read all about me. There’s a link in the sidebar to it as well.
Tonight I was a sloth and watched TV. I had a dilemma between 8:00 and 9:00, as I wanted to watch “Survivor” on CBS at 8:00 but also wanted to catch the 20 minutes of live sketches done by the cast of Saturday Night Live on NBC at 8:40. So I wound up flipping between them both. I saw Kel (good-looking military intelligence officer) get voted off the continent of Australia, and I saw Darrell Hammond impersonate Bill Clinton. When doing Clinton, Darrell Hammond can make the crowd titter with anticipation just by sitting in an armchair without even opening his mouth. Then he says, in hoarse, charming, laid-back Clintonese, with a grin on his face, “Good evening.” And the crowd bursts into laughter. After two words. He’s so good.
Tomorrow night I’m going to a cocktail party hosted by a member of my alma mater’s gay alumni group. It should be fun. Those of us in New York get together about once a month for some social event. Everyone seems to wind up living in New York City… this place is the center of the universe. Even my 10th anniversary high school reunion is going to be held in New York. And my high school was in Tokyo, Japan. See? Everyone comes here.
And on Saturday night, I’m having sex.
11:22 PM | Comments Off Saturday, February 3, 2001
Last night I hung out with my gay friend CanadaGirl, whom I’ve known since college. (I was going to refer to her as TorontoGirl, but for some reason that sounds like the name of a Neanderthal.) We went to a gay UVA alumni cocktail party, which was hosted by another UVA alum and his boyfriend at their cute little East Village apartment with walls painted in soothing Martha Stewart colors (pale blue living room, mango bathroom). We were among the first to arrive, but eventually around 20 people showed up. Lots of mingling with some people I hadn’t seen in a while and some I’d never met.
CanadaGirl and I both got nicely soused. When we were in the kitchen, fixing ourselves drinks, mine went terribly wrong. I can’t remember what I was trying to make, but it wasn’t right, and each time I tried to add something to fix it, it wound up getting worse. It was some combination of lime juice, orange juice, a liqueur resembling Triple Sec, and tequila, and it was pretty bad. But CanadaGirl was so generous that she offered to switch drinks with me; she drank my gross concoction, and I drank her gin and tonic, which was much better than what I’d attempted. Sometimes simplicity in drinks is best.
Eventually CanadaGirl had to meet her gay friend Dave at a nearby East Village bar called Phoenix, and she invited me along. She tripped and fell on the way over but wound up being fine.
The bar was a really nice change from the Chelsea bars. The Chelsea bars are all attitude and tight shirts and more attitude, and they show us that we can stop the research, because human cloning has already been achieved. The East Village gay bars are more relaxed, more diverse, less glitzy, less “gay.” I just went to my first East Village bar a few weeks ago, Wonderbar, and it was refreshing. Phoenix was similar but a little grungier — it could have passed for a straight bar in a working-class city. I wouldn’t have pegged most of the people there as gay if I didn’t know otherwise. But there was still some nice eye candy, as well as a short and stocky MTV veejay who lost the vote to that guy Jesse a few years back but wound up become a veejay anyway. (I didn’t know who he was; the others pointed it out. He sort of looked like Oliver Platt.) There was a pool table, along with some pinball machines and a Ms. Pac-Man console (guess that was the one giveaway — if it were a straight bar, it would have just been Pac-Man).
Dave and his boyfriend were both good guys, charming and witty. I wound up not having to pay for any drinks, because first Dave bought me one and then later CanadaGirl bought me two. Eventually we left and went to Wonderbar, which might not have seemed like a gay bar if not for two guys who were alternately liplocked and smiling sexily at each other.
Shortly after, nicely roasted and toasted, I wandered across town to the PATH subway station and came home. I was hungry, so I heated up some rice, ate it, read for a while, and went to bed. All in all it was a good night. Sometimes it’s great to be alive.
And tonight I get to have sex.
2:15 PM | Comments Off Sunday, February 4, 2001
Recently I’ve been spending some time with a certain guy. We’ve known each other for a few weeks, and we have a “friendship with benefits,” you might call it. Once or twice a week, we have some fun together. It’s practically an ideal situation, because neither of us wants a relationship right now; so I get my solitude, and I also get to have a regular sex partner.
Last night he spent the night at my place. He came over in the late afternoon, and we had a couple of hours of fun.
Several hours later, at night, we were rustling ourselves together for a night of gay-bar-hopping. He’s newly out, and he’d never experienced New York’s gay bar scene before, so I was going to show him around a little.
Now, here’s the thing. I think I’m decent looking, and some people have agreed; but I’m way insecure, and I think he’s way better looking than me. Put us side by side and I lose any competition. Now, before we went out, he asked me what the “rules” were going to be — if he wound up “playing with someone” at one of the bars, would I be OK with that? He was already going to spend the night at my place, so I knew I’d ultimately have him for myself, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to go to a club with a guy and have that guy make out with another guy while I just stood there, looking in the other direction and sipping my drink. I’m shy, and I’m awful at going to a bar alone and striking up conversations with random strangers. Yet we’re not dating, so I couldn’t really tell him no. So I told him that it would make me feel awkward but that of course he was free to do what he wanted. Anyway, a little while later, he told me that it would probably be “dickish” of him to fool around with someone else if he was with me. Okay, good. Problem solved.
We went to Wonderbar (where I’d been the night before) and Starlight, both in the East Village. At Wonderbar, there were a few different guys who seemed to be checking him out — he pointed this out to me; I didn’t notice it myself. It bothered me that he was pointing this out. First of all, he seemed to be tooting his own horn, and that’s a real turn-off to me; if you’re good-looking, you don’t have to flaunt it. Second of all, and more importantly, I was envious of him and his looks. I was feeling insecure about myself. And I guess I can excuse the first thing, because as a newly-out gay man, he must feel like a kid in a candy store.
And eventually, he did wind up making out with someone at the bar: me.
We were standing there sipping our drinks, talking, and eventually, he moved his head closer to mine and it happened. And it happened again. And again. And then continuously for a while. And when we got to Starlight, we did practically nothing but make out.
I’m so envious when I see two guys making out in a bar, knowing that they’re getting play and I’m not. But I love it when I’m one of the guys making out. I get to be the object of envy; I get to rub it in people’s faces that I’m getting play. Hah! I get to say. Look at me!
At one point, when we were still at Wonderbar, I went to use the bathroom, and when I came out, a guy was talking to him. Apparently the guy, who hadn’t seen us making out before, had asked my friend if we were boyfriends. My friend told him no, which of course was true, and I think the guy got his hopes up. But later on, the two of us were kissing again. After we kissed, I saw the guy say something to his friend. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the expression on his face was something like, “Oh, well.”
So, okay. These other guys were looking at my friend, and yet I got to be the one who made out with him, and I got to be the one to take him home with me. I got to be the object of envy.
But did it make me feel less insecure?
No.
I was making out with a great-looking guy, and although it gave me a thrill, it didn’t make me feel better about myself. Was anyone checking me out? No — why would anyone be checking me out if they could be looking at him?
If you’re insecure, no external event will make you feel better about yourself. You interpret everything in the light of that insecurity. Sure, the guys who were checking out my friend got to be envious of me, but what does that matter? Next week, my friend can go back to one of those places and pick up someone else. Someone hotter than me. I was only the guy for that night.
I kept trying to remind myself not to be insecure. People very well could have been checking me out. The odds are that at least some people were. But even if they weren’t — or even if more people were looking at him than at me — I shouldn’t let that affect my self-esteem or the value I give to myself as a human being. It doesn’t matter what other people think of you; all that matters is what you think of you. Yeah, that’s one of those Mr. Rogers-type lessons, and it’s not at all profound, I know. It’s common knowledge.
But I forget that piece of common knowledge all the time.
I’m working on remembering it. I’m trying to get to a point where I feel secure in who I am so all that Mr. Rogers-type stuff comes as second nature to me. I’m working on it. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m getting there. It’s a step-by-step process.
And anyway, it was a hell of a great night. We came back to my place and didn’t wind up falling asleep until 6 in the morning.
So, to hell with insecurity. Sometimes you just have to enjoy things for what they are.
10:59 PM | Comments Off Tuesday, February 6, 2001
The Bush presidency is 17 days old, and it strikes me that something has been odd about politics lately. This has been bothering me for the last few weeks and I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on it. It’s like something’s missing. It’s like there’s political depression in the air.
What’s missing is the strife, the drama. It just seems like politics has been less exciting. Sure, the Ashcroft nomination created some tension, but compared to other events of the last decade, it still seemed so… dull.
And of course, as with everything else in the politics of the last decade, it all has to do with Bill Clinton.
Bill’s left office, so now what do we do? What’s the story? What’s the angle? The Bill Clinton Story was always so exciting, so big, as big as a Big Mac and a supersize box of french fries. He had huge successes, huge failures; it might have been painful at times, but it was always exciting and operatic. But now, instead of a big bold opera, politics seems like a demure string quartet.
Some human element is missing. For eight years, politics was all about Bill, all about Bill’s needs. What is it about now? Tax cuts, faith-based organizations. Yay. Sure, there was Clinton’s “mandatory school uniforms” period, but that seems like ages ago. Most of the time, Bill was always about hugely dramatic dysfunction, and now that he’s gone, Washington is boring.
The biggest evidence is that even though Clinton is no longer president, the press hasn’t realized it. It’s still covering him as if he were. Just as Bill Clinton is addicted to McDonald’s and big-haired women, the media has become addicted to Bill Clinton. When was the last time an ex-president received this much press coverage? Granted, most of it is of his own doing — the immunity deal, the Marc Rich pardon, the White House gifts, the too-expensive Manhattan office. With his tackiness and his shamelessness, he makes himself an easy target. He personifies everything the media pursued in the 1990’s: politics as entertainment, entertainment as scandal, scandal as politics. O.J., Monica, Diana — he’s better than them all. O.J. had agility, Diana had incredible charisma, Monica had the political connection; Bill Clinton is all of these things rolled into one. The Big He, as Monica called him.
Meanwhile, back in Washington, George W. Bush is as self-effacing as Bill Clinton was self-promoting. Clinton never missed an opportunity to pontificate and bloviate, but Bush can’t do it and probably wouldn’t do it even if he could. The Bush presidency runs like a well-oiled machine — and don’t forget, that’s Texas oil, son — but it’s not exciting.
So why stick around Washington when you can cover the Man From Chappaqua?
11:14 AM | Comments Off This is great — the Obsolete Computer Museum. Did you have a home computer as a kid that you haven’t thought about in years? It might be on here. (When I was a kid, I had a TI-99/4A, from Texas Instruments.)
2:51 PM | Comments Off Wednesday, February 7, 2001
Internal Housekeeping
Between Blogger’s internal problems and a recurring Blogger/Geocities “broken pipe” problem, lately I’ve had about a 50 percent chance of being able to update my blog when I want to. This is not good.
Note: for some annoying Geocities-related reason, changes to my blog do not always register right away at this URL. So in addition to this one, you can also check http://www.geocities.com/tinmanblog for updates (no index.htm at the end).
This morning I received an e-mail from David Sim, a mid-30s gay Londoner with a blog called swishcottage. Thanks, David! It’s always great to hear from people across the Atlantic.
Which reminds me: I know that there are other people out there who read my blog — Sitemeter tells me so. Yet other than myself and Maurice (thanks Maurice), nobody has signed my guest book. So come on. Sign it. Or at least send me some e-mail. I really don’t bite.
One of the more distinctive domain names of people who read my blog is epa.gov. I’m interested in knowing who at the EPA is checking out my blog. Just for you, I’ll try to include more environmental treatises in the future. And whoever you are, take good care of my former governor, now that she’s heading your agency — Christie Whitman is one of the few Republicans whom I actually like. Even if she does look like Prince Charles.
While looking for a picture of Prince Charles, I came across this crotch shot of Prince William. Excuse me… I have to go faint now.
Anyway, that brings us full circle, back to the UK. Or almost full circle. I guess full circle would be if I made another reference to a broken pipe. A broken pipe is something I hope Prince William doesn’t have.
11:10 AM | Comments Off Holy Mr. Blackwell, Al. Are you serious? You look like a Harvard professor circa 1972. This is not the way to begin a comeback.
11:21 AM | Comments Off Last night I went to Twentysomething, a social group for GLBT people in their 20s in the New York City area. The group meets twice a month at the Lesbian and Gay Community Center. Usually about 50 or 60 people show up (mostly guys), and we divide into groups and discuss the topic of the evening — gay marriage, political issues, entertainment, and so on. Sometimes this gets stale.
But last night was Game Show Night.
We divided into four teams; two teams played a homemade version of Jeopardy and the other two teams played Family Feud. Our team played Jeopardy (with such categories as “What a Drag,” “Fashion,” and “Potpourri” — though I was hoping for “Potent Potables”). We won, so we went on to the next round: we played the winners of Family Feud in a version of Hollywood Squares. But we lost. Technically it was a tie, because all nine squares got filled up with nobody making a straight line, but the other team had five Xs to our four Os, so it was determined that they won. Haven’t these people seen WarGames? Nobody wins at tic-tac-toe.
I had a good time, because I managed to overcome my shyness and struck up a conversation with three or four guys. Progress. And apparently the Center is hosting a lesbian and gay Valentine’s Dance this Saturday — I think I might go.
11:49 AM | Comments Off EPA Guy: Mystery Solved!
I have received an e-mail from EPA Guy in response to my earlier query. Wow, that was fast. Thanks, EPA Guy!
He describes himself as “yet another gay bored voyeuristic civil servant.” I didn’t realize there were so many… Does George W. know about this?
It turns out I’m not the only blogger to mention his visits; he’s also been mentioned by tolkhan and Rich & Creamy. EPA Guy, you really get around!
3:10 PM | Comments Off If Al Gore Were My Professor
Scene: Outside Professor Gore’s office.
Jeff knocks on the door. The sound of ruffling papers and the clearing of a throat.
Professor Gore: Yes?
Jeff: Professor Gore? May I come in?
Professor Gore: Please.
Jeff opens the door slowly and walks in. Professor Gore is wearing a beige tweed jacket over a maroon v-neck sweater. He smiles at Jeff brightly.
Professor Gore: How may I help you?
Jeff: Do you have a moment? I had a few questions after class but I couldn’t make my way to the front of the room because of all the journalists.
Professor Gore: Not a problem. They follow me all over the place. Though not as much as they used to. (He grimaces.)
Jeff: Yeah…
Professor Gore (muttering quietly): supreme court…
Jeff: Yeah… um, anyway, I didn’t quite understand something that you were saying in class today, and I was wondering if you could clarify it?
Professor Gore: Perhaps you’re referring to my discussion of the technology coefficient.
Jeff: Well, no –
Professor Gore: The news derivative?
Jeff: Not really, but –
Professor Gore: The news derivative was a theory that grew out of the Mathusian genoplasty movement in the eighteenth century. It relates in many ways to the Tofflerian concept of predetermined linguistic microphages. But you probably covered that in an introductory class.
Jeff: Well actually –
Professor Gore (laughing): I know, I know, I don’t want to insult your intelligence. I apologize.
Jeff: Thanks, but —
Professor Gore: As for the technology coefficient, if you read Capistrati on the emergence of Blue Fromage disease around the time of the French Revolution, as well as Kovislavski’s well-known dissertation on the early Luddite movement, there’s lots of great information in there. Why, Tipper and I –
Jeff: The thing is, sir, if I may –
Professor Gore: Now hold on a sec. As I was saying, why, Tipper and I were discussing the technology coefficient just the other night while she was putting on her sexy lace neglige before bed. I love my wife Tipper, you know. I kiss her a lot.
Jeff: Yes –
Professor Gore: I like sex. Really.
Jeff: Yes, I know, I saw the convention speech –
Professor Gore: Did you really? What did you think?
Jeff: Well, to be honest, I didn’t catch the whole thing.
Professor Gore: (sighs)
Jeff: I mean, I wanted to, I really did! It’s just that I was busy writing –
Professor Gore: (sighs loudly)
Jeff (quickly): I mean I watched the whole thing and I couldn’t keep my eyes off it and it was the best speech I’ve ever seen.
Professor Gore (smiling): Why thank you! I wrote it myself.
Jeff: Ah, yes, I seem to recall reading about that!
Professor Gore: Last August was a busy time for me, actually, because while I was working on my speech I was also writing the scripts for “Survivor.”
Jeff: Um, “Survivor” didn’t have scripts.
Professor Gore: I invented scripts, you know. In fact, William Shakespeare and I –
Jeff (confused): Professor?
Professor Gore: Anyway, in case you’re still confused about predetermined linguistic microphages, I’d be happy to elaborate.
He pulls out a large whiteboard and begins to draw a diagram.
Jeff: Really, that’s okay, I just had a quick question.
Professor Gore (drawing quickly): If you’ll see here, the early linguistic microphages weren’t predetermined — (he laughs and nods) — though, of course, there are some Scandinavian theorists who believe otherwise, such as Sven Hagegard. Now under Mr. Hagegard’s plan, linguistic microphages would have gone through an early primogenital phase. But under my plan –
Jeff: Actually, Professor? I really do have to run to my next class.
Professor Gore: Oh, not a problem! Well, I’m glad I was able to answer all your questions.
Jeff: Well, no.
Professor Gore: No?
(pause)
Jeff: I just wanted to know about the grading policy.
Professor Gore: Oh.
(There is a long pause. Professor Gore nervously pretends to be examining something on the ceiling. Jeff looks concerned.)
Jeff: Since grades are kind of important.
Professor Gore: Right.
(Another long pause. Professor Gore looks around and looks up at the ceiling again. Then he looks back at Jeff.)
Professor Gore: Under my plan –
Jeff: Professor? The grading system?
Professor Gore: Right. Sorry.
(pause)
Professor Gore: You know, I invented grades.
Jeff: (Sighs loudly.)
[Exeunt]
4:55 PM | Comments Off Thursday, February 8, 2001
I’ve gotten so little work done today, and the workday will be over in an hour and a half. The Internet makes the entire world a click away, and lately it seems like I have the attention span of a — aww, cute! A baby polar bear!
(link found on kottke)
3:33 PM | Comments Off Friday, February 9, 2001
The guy has been on my mind lately. I think I’m developing some sort of feelings for him. I don’t know what those feelings are, but they’re something. Is it possible that what I first saw as some casual sexual fun has developed into something more in my eyes? Physically, he’s everything I could want in a guy; he’s short (like me), he’s smooth, he has a beautiful face, and physically, he’s very passionate. (I’ve found that just because someone has great looks, doesn’t mean he’ll have great sexual skill… but he has both.) He’s also intelligent and he’s my age. But there are some downsides: he’s a smoker, and I think his life priorities are different from mine. But anyway.
Both of us have said that we’re not looking for a relationship right now. He’s newly out, after having recently ended a several-years-long engagement to a woman, and he’s enjoying his newfound freedom. In fact, he recently began looking for other friends and sex partners through online personal ads. (Note: He and I definitely practice safe sex. We’re not stupid.) He told me a little bit about one of the guys who responded to his ad — a really attractive guy in his 20s who describes himself as straight or questioning and is looking to experiment. I’ve never had someone like that respond to an ad of mine. (But I don’t look for sex partners through my ads.)
I’m not looking for a relationship right now either, but I’m finding that I’m jealous. I’m thinking, why aren’t I enough for him? It seems like we have something. He sleeps over, we cuddle together, we look into each other’s eyes, we have conversations, we throw on clothes and go out to grab some food, we’ve even gone out to a couple of bars together and made out, we chat online several nights a week. So when we’re together, are we just pretending? I guess we’re just friends who have sex, and I happen to have developed feelings of some kind. I wanted to get together with him some night this weekend, but he’s already made plans. Presumably with one of the other guys. Or two of them, Friday night and Saturday night. It hurts to imagine him sleeping with someone else, staring into another guy’s eyes, cuddling with him.
I can’t figure out what I’m feeling. It’s true that I don’t want a relationship right now. I will want one again at some point, but not now. Plus, even if I did want a relationship, as great as he is, I don’t think he’s what I’d be looking for. So what is it that I want from him? Do I just want to be desired? Do I just want to be longed for?
I don’t usually feel like this. Normally, if I were sleeping with someone, I wouldn’t be jealous of whomever else he slept with. I wouldn’t care.
But I do care.
10:39 AM | Comments Off I’ve added a new page that will contain some of my other writings. So far there’s just one there, but I plan to add more.
Um, it’s a weekday. Shouldn’t you be working?
Yup.
1:39 PM | Comments Off Closet Boy, sometimes you crack me up. (Specifically, the last paragraph.)
2:00 PM | Comments Off Saturday, February 10, 2001
This afternoon I finished reading Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. An entertaining novel with some interesting ideas about the connections between computers and religion and the brain’s capacity for language, although the plot could have been better done. I thought the book ended pretty lamely. Still, Stephenson has a pretty creative imagination.
Sitting on my bookshelf for a while has been Godel, Escher, Bach by Douglas R. Hofstadter. This is one of the most amazing, intellectually dense books ever written; it was sitting in my parents basement until I pilfered it over a year ago. I began reading it but put it down one day and never got back to it; I think my next reading project may be this one.
But my aunt recently sent me three books for my birthday (Amazon sent them several weeks late), which I also have to add to my list of things to read. I didn’t ask for them, but they look interesting: A Life in the Twentieth Century: Innocent Beginnings, 1917-1950, the first part of Arthur Schlesinger, Jr.’s memoir; Robert Kennedy: His Life, by Evan Thomas; and I’d Hate Myself in the Morning, a memoir by Ring Lardner, Jr., who was a member of the Hollywood Ten who were jailed by the House Un-American Activities Committee and who was then blacklisted. I guess I’ll be delving into the twentieth century for a while…
My bookshelves also contain a bunch of other books that have bookmarks partway through, indications that I began reading them and at some forgot about them, including a biography of J.P. Morgan; a history of gay America in the twentieth century by John Laughery; Penguin’s History of the World; John Irving’s A Widow for One Year; Edmund White’s A Farewell Symphony; The Tube: The Invention of Television; William Least Heat Moon’s PrairyErth; and so on. Not to mention books that I got really cheaply but haven’t had a chance to read, such as Elizabeth Drew’s On the Edge; David Maraniss’s biography of Bill Clinton; a book on the Supreme Court called The Center Holds; James McPherson’s Battle Cry of Freedom, about the Civil War; Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon; and some others. (I could link all these books to their descriptions on Amazon, but that would take way too long.)
So, I’m a book collector. I also have a fickle mind. Things that seemed interesting at one time later lost their luster, and some reading projects that seemed riveting in theory turned out to seem less so when it got to actually reading the book. I still have a long biography of William Lloyd Garrison that I bought last summer but only got ten pages into. I do want to get back to that one, actually. So you’d think I’d have plenty of books to read now without going out and buying some new ones. But you’d be wrong.
Kind of like how I am with classical music CDs: I have a bunch of them that I’ve listened to only once, or less than once, or not at all.
My life has way too much detritus.
3:01 PM | Comments Off Sunday, February 11, 2001
I’m writing this from a friend’s place in central New Jersey. I needed to get away from my urban surroundings, so I took the New Jersey Transit train down here, and I’m staying here overnight. It’s quiet here, unlike my place, where the walls are thin and I can hear every footstep that someone makes in an adjacent apartment. And he has a puppy! She’s a cute little yellow lab, and she’s always so excited to see me. She’s really adorable.
Tonight my friend and I went out to dinner, and then we rented a movie — Keeping the Faith, starring Ben Stiller, Edward Norton and Jenna Elfman. For some reason this movie slipped beneath my radar when it first came out; I thought it was terrific. And Edward Norton is such a cutie.
My friend has a washer and dryer, so I’m doing my laundry, which has desperately needed to be done. And it’s a whole lot cheaper doing it here than going to a laundromat.
At dinner, I was talking with my friend about the situation with the guy. My friend told me that I can’t impose a double standard, of course — and of course he’s right. But it still smarts to know that the guy is sleeping with other people this weekend; at one point last night, when I was home alone, I was thinking that at that very moment, he was probably in bed with someone. I could of course be wrong — maybe he was out with a friend or something — but anyway, it doesn’t really matter what I think in this situation, does it? After all, it’s his life.
We human beings are an interesting species. We can think, and on top of that — and simultaneously — we can think about our thinking process. So on one level, I feel jealous, and yet on a higher level, I know that those feelings are pointless and that there are reasons why I feel the way I do.
Am I intellectualizing my emotions? Or am I emotionalizing my intellect? Or both?
I should be a therapist.
2:13 AM | Comments Off When Reality Intrudes
The veil has been pierced; today, for the first time, I heard from someone who stumbled across my blog and realized that he knew me. (This is cool and yet a little disconcerting — so much for anonymity.) He and I went on a couple of dates early last month before he had to return to grad school up in Buffalo. We had a good time together, so — *waving* — hey there, up in Buffalo!
The Guy
Tonight I talked on the phone with The Guy (since that seems to be the name he’s taken on). I chatted him up and asked him how his weekend went. He told me; there was sex involved in his weekend activities. But strangely, this didn’t bother me as much as I’d thought it would — basically because he didn’t have sex with, or even meet up with, a person of whom I’d been particularly envious — a self-described “straight frat boy” who apparently had really good-looking photos. Instead, he described the people whom he met up with, and they weren’t descriptions of people I’d have been interested in. I guess it’s like if someone has a really good sandwich, and I want some, but then I realize the sandwich has lots of mayonnaise on it; suddenly the sandwich doesn’t seem as big a deal. (I really dislike mayonnaise.) This kind of makes me wonder — was I envious of him, or of the sandwich — I mean, of the people he had sex with? I don’t know. But I suspect more and more that this isn’t about him as much as it’s about me. And hey, that makes sense, because it’s my blog, and I can cry if I want to.
Furthermore, there’s this guy in another city whom he’s been interacting with online for several weeks, and he says he might be interested in a relationship with that guy. And for some reason this doesn’t make me envious, either, because he’s described this guy, and he has certain qualities I wouldn’t want in a romantic partner. So again — of whom am I envious? This really has to do with me and my insecurities. I know I seem to refer to my insecurities at least three times a week in this blog, but that’s because they have a big hold over me. On the outside, though, I’ve been told I’m kind of a friendly, charming guy (albeit a little shy), so I must hide my insecurities well.
11:43 PM | Comments Off Monday, February 12, 2001
“Oh my God, they’ve found me… I don’t know how, but they’ve found me. Run for it, Marty!”
– Doc Emmett Brown, Back to the Future (one of my all-time favorite movies)
Well, I don’t know how, but they’ve found me — Blog You! Blog You! Blog You! A Consumer’s Guide to Weblogs. Apparently, this review of various weblogs just opened up shop last Wednesday. Reviewers Tom and Ed seem to have covered quite a bundle of blogs in just the first five days, including, for some reason, mine. In fact, I only learned of them because I received an e-mail telling me I’d been reviewed. I’ve poked around their site, and I think their reviews are intelligently written and insightful — take a look.
I have to say, it’s kinda cool to read what other people have written about me.
And, oh — they rate blogs not with stars, but with Sutherlands.
As in Donald Sutherland.
No, I’m serious.
1:54 AM | Comments Off I’ve added a few more pieces to the page of other writings.
Why, you may ask, am I awake at 3:30 in the morning?
Because I have a three-day weekend. Next weekend’s a three-day weekend, too.
Gotta love working for the government!
3:37 AM | Comments Off Today was very refreshing. I had the day off from work for Lincoln’s birthday. I wound up going to my parents’ house in the northern New Jersey suburbs so I could pick up a nice black leather jacket that they’d bought me as a late birthday present; getting there entailed using three different forms of transportation — the PATH train, the Newark city subway system, and the New Jersey Transit bus system. Whew.
My brother happened to be there — long story — and the two of us wound up going to the Short Hills Mall, which is a very frou-frou mall in Short Hills, New Jersey (or is it chi-chi? I always get those confused). If there’s an upscale store that has only two locations in the New York City area, and only one of those locations is in Manhattan, it’s a good bet that the other location will be in the Short Hills Mall. What a mall. Where else can you go to Tiffany, Neiman Marcus, the Gap and Mrs. Field’s Cookies all in the same place?
It was great to get away from the slightly cruddy Jersey City area and drive past the exorbitant mansions of Short Hills, NJ, as well as past the beautiful old houses in the town that I still think of as home. And it’s always nice to come home to your parents’ house to see your dog, open up a refrigerator full of food, and sit down to a nice, home-cooked meal.
Sounds like the Cleavers, doesn’t it?
And now that I have a nice black leather jacket, I look like a true stylin’ New Yorker.
It’s sad that I even have to say this, but it seems so rare today to have parents who are still married to each other. My parents soon will celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary. Whatever errors my folks might have made in raising me — and there certainly have been some glaring errors, which partially explains why I’m in therapy — I know that their intentions were good, and I know that they love me, and I’m thankful for them and for the stability that they’ve brought to my life. Perhaps they’ve brought me too much stability, but at any rate, I’m glad I have them, and I’m glad they’re together.
10:40 PM | Comments Off Tuesday, February 13, 2001
Crushlink — how Dawson’s Creekish. How 90210-ish. How high-schoolish and utterly adolescent.
How tempting.
(Thanks to Psionic for the link.)
Now I just need to find a crush…
And now it strikes me that I completely forgot to go to the Valentine’s Dance at the Lesbian and Gay Community Center on Saturday night. It failed to register in my consciousness even in the slightest on Saturday, and in fact I didn’t remember it until just now. Except now I’m about 60 hours too late. I must have been too overwhelmed with excitement at doing my laundry.
What if the love of my life was there and I missed meeting him?
At least I can still go to the Valentine’s Eve group dinner that 20something is holding tonight. Perhaps he’ll be there.
11:06 AM | Comments Off Wonder of wonders… The New Yorker website now contains content. This feels almost as momentous as when the New York Times finally began using color photographs on its front page in 1997. This is what is known as getting with the program.
The site’s navigation is a little clunky, and it only has a few articles up there, but still, yay!
1:44 PM | Comments Off Glances
I just came back from the vending machine, where I bought a bag of Peanut Butter M&M’s, and on the way back I made eye contact with a kinda-cute teenage boy. He must be 16 or 17. I work in the state court system, and random people are in the building every day to attend hearings. This boy has been here with a small group of people all day; I’ve seen him three times, and twice we’ve made eye contact. Hmm… the age of consent for homosexual sex in New Jersey is only 16… not that I’m going to pull a Brian Kinney or anything, but still, it’s kinda fun to be looked at.
I’m so bad at cruising, though. When I catch a guy looking at me — on a subway train or at a bar, for instance — I usually tell myself that he just happened to be looking around and that our eyes just happened to meet. After all, that happens, doesn’t it? Common scenario: you’re at a gay bar, or some other place where there are lots of gay people. You’re looking around the room, and somehow your eyes land on a guy whom you have absolutely no interest in, usually someone twenty years older than you, and then he catches you looking at him. So you look away, trying to show that you weren’t really cruising him. But then a minute later, you’re once again looking around the room, and no this can’t happen twice can it but your eyes accidentally land on him again, and again he catches you looking at him, and he gives a knowing smile. Again you look away quickly. But by this point your embarrassment has made you hyperconscious of this guy, and so you look at him yet again, and yet again he looks at you. At that point you move to another part of the bar where you’re out of his line of sight, you sip your drink, and you concentrate really hard on a point on the far wall.
Or maybe these things only happen to me.
4:58 PM | Comments Off Buzzedblog
I’ve come home from one of the best evenings I’ve had in a long time, and I’m still kinda buzzed. I went to that Valentine’s eve dinner at a Mexican restaurant called Mexican Radio. We had a whole basement room to ourselves, about 30 of us, a big group of gay men in our twenties. I’d been to several 20something meetings before, but this was the first time that I hung out with the group over the course of a good meal and several drinks. Even before the alcohol, I felt more relaxed among these people than I had in the past — I think because I decided to make it an enjoyable event and because I said to myself, “to hell with the pressure of finding someone I’d be interested in dating.” I don’t know why it took me so long to get to that point. But it was the right attitude to take.
After mingling for a long time, I wound up at a table with three other guys, all of whom I’d already been talking with, and we continued to have ourselves a good conversation and a good time. One of those guys I’d seen before at a gay reading group at the Center, and we’d smiled at each other once, so that made it easy to strike up a conversation. At the end of the evening, he asked for my phone number, so we exchanged our numbers.
One of the other guys at our table was beautiful — brown hair with blond streaks, nice eyes, completely clear skin, slim nose. And it turned out we went to rival colleges. This guy and the fourth guy at our table already knew each other. Anyway, the four of us really did have a great time; the alcohol certainly didn’t hurt.
I’m 27 years old, but I still haven’t gotten over the fact that on a Tuesday night, I can go to a restaurant with a bunch of people, get a nice buzz going, and come home around midnight. Ahhh… adulthood.
11:52 PM | Comments Off Wednesday, February 14, 2001
Note to RJ: I am not a sweet navel gazer. When I see a sweet navel, I do more than gaze…
12:56 PM | Comments Off If I Only Had a…
Strange, huh: the Tin Man writing about Valentine’s Day. Well, to make something clear: I didn’t choose the name Tin Man because I don’t have a heart. I chose the name Tin Man because I do have a heart. Confused? Here’s an explanation (scroll down).
This has got to be one of the more depressing Valentine’s Day stories I’ve read.
As for me, I don’t have too many memorable Valentine’s Day stories. Let’s see:
February 14, 1990: I find out that I’ve got the part I wanted in my high school’s spring musical, “Anything Goes.” (Did I mention I’m gay?)
February 14, 1992: My first Valentine’s Day back in the States after three years away; I’m single, but it’s sunny and mild out, and I get an early case of spring fever. (Why is a holiday for lovebirds nestled in the depths of winter?)
February 14, 1994 (I think this was the year): After receiving my annual Valentine’s Day card in the mail from my mom, I call her up and tell her that I really don’t want her to send them anymore. I tell her it’s because a 20-year-old guy shouldn’t be getting Valentine’s Day cards from his mom. (The subtext here, which I don’t tell her, is that it just adds to the patheticness of my being single. The other reason, which I also don’t tell her, is that I’m already sexually confused enough without having to add Oedipal complications.)
February 14, 1999: For the first (and, so far, only) time, I’m dating someone on Valentine’s Day. He and I go out for a quasi-romantic dinner at a gay-owned restaurant.
February 14, 2001 (anticipated): “The West Wing.”
Here’s to a Valentine-filled future.
1:01 PM | Comments Off Thursday, February 15, 2001
Me = -[b+(a/c)]*xz
I had a really valuable phone conversation with The Guy last night. We’d been chatting online, and he told me about another person whom he’d had sex with a couple of nights before, but it seemed to be developing into something; yesterday they’d been constantly e-mailing each other and sending each other e-crushes. This is a different guy from the one who lives in another city. This is someone whom he’s had sex with just once. This kind of upset me all over again, so I asked if I could call him, and he said sure, so I did.
I was moved to tell him that I’ve been having sort of a crush on him, and that I’d been wondering why I’m just a sex partner to him. But he told me that he sees me as a friend whom he has sex with, and that he’s picky in whom he sleeps with; if he didn’t find me attractive, he wouldn’t sleep with me. In some ways this made me feel good — hey, I’m attractive! — but in other ways, it didn’t — hey, so what do those other two guys have that I don’t?
I was able to talk through a lot of things that had been going on in my mind, and he actually helped me to some insights. Here’s what I came to realize: part of why I’ve been jealous of the other people he sleeps with is because I’m envious of the fun he’s having. I’ve put restraints on myself while resenting the fact that other people feel free not to have those restraints. So, rather than lament the fact that he has multiple sex partners and wishing that he wanted to be monogamous with me, I need to give up the fight within myself and allow myself to have more fun. But it’s not just that, because I’ve had fun before; what I mean is that I need to let myself have fun without feeling guilty about it.
I want to post here an excerpt from an e-mail I wrote a friend a couple of months ago, which will go a long way towards explaining some truths about me. By the way, I’m starting to wonder why I’m baring my soul in this blog so much, and if it’s doing anyone else but me any good. But anyway, here’s the excerpt:
Here’s an anecdote. When I was a sophomore in high school, in Tokyo, I hadn’t yet begun to drink alcohol. It just wasn’t something I wanted to do - it seemed wrong to me.
That year, I idolized a senior named [X]. I was crazy about him. We’d become good friends that fall after acting in a show together. I looked up to him and thought he was the greatest person in the world. I didn’t know if he was gay or not, and it didn’t matter, because this was purely an emotional thing, not sexual. But I adored him.
One Saturday night, a bunch of people from my high school went to a bar. This happened all the time in Tokyo — the Japanese bouncers didn’t know how old we were, or didn’t care. I was there with some people, and [X] was there with some seniors. And the next thing I knew, he had ordered a mug of beer and was drinking it. Looking back on it now, it’s silly, but seeing him drinking alcohol really upset me. I thought so highly of him, and to see him doing something that I thought was wrong was really confusing for me. How could he be the person I admired so much and yet be drinking alcohol? If he was drinking, what did that mean about the moral precepts I had set up for myself? Had I been wrong not to drink?
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the Disney version of “Pinocchio.” In the movie, Pinocchio, the good little boy, runs away to the Island of Lost Children, or whatever it’s called. The island is filled with lots of other boys who have run away from their families, and on the island they gamble and smoke cigars and so forth. When they do bad things, they grow donkey ears and donkey tails. Pinocchio starts to fall under their influence and do bad things as well, and he grows ears and a tail. When I saw that movie as a kid, that scene really upset me. I didn’t want there to be bad things in the world.
But, years later, I’ve realized that the behavior attracted me, too, and that’s what had scared and upset me about it. See, I grew up being a good little kid — loved by my parents, adored by my teachers, the smartest kid in class. It felt really good; it made me feel secure; it gave me a sense of self-worth. But seeing that scene in “Pinocchio” threw something unwanted into the mix. I didn’t want to know that it was possible to misbehave, to be a bad kid; that was something *other* people did, not me. If I was a bad kid, wouldn’t I lose the security that my parents and teachers had given me? Wouldn’t I lose everything I’d based my identity, my self-worth, my value as a human being, upon?
There’s so much going on in those last two paragraphs; in some way or another, almost everything that has caused me angst during my short life thus far has come from taking them and rotating, refracting, multiplying by x, dividing by y, adding or subtracting z, or any combination thereof. My life is an algebraic equation gone wrong. I have to start over with a new formula — the old one has given me nothing but irrational numbers.
Be optimistic: you can change your life.
10:59 AM | Comments Off Friday, February 16, 2001
Drunkblog
This is going to be heavy.
Okay, a couple of nights ago, I wrote a blog entry while buzzed. Tonight I got drunk, and I’m not sober yet. Therefore, I can’t say that this is going to be the most exquisite entry. When I’m drunk and I’m typing, all I can do is correct typos.
The Guy and I had planned for him to come over tonight for a long night of fun. But shortly after I wrote my last blog entry, I received the following e-mail from him:
Hey Jeff-
Ok, i really hate to do this, and i’m not sure how to say it other than to be direct. I can’t sleep with you tonight. I spoke with [Lee, the newest guy — this is what I’ll call him] late last night, and things seem to be getting really serious. I really want this, and i don’t want to do anything that might screw it up. Please don’t be upset by this, it doesn’t reflect upon you in any way. You know i’d be in your bed in a second if the unexpected hadn’t happened.
I’d still like to hang out tonight, perhaps go to this party or for dinner or drinks? Let me know.
- [The Guy]
I read this and my heart sank. I couldn’t respond right away; instead, I got some lunch, walked around, and about an hour later I wrote back. I decided to be as terse and non-revealing of my emotions as possible:
If there are going to be a lot of gay people at this party, I might be up for that. Otherwise, why don’t we go out for some drinks.
I’ll call you this evening. Or you can call me. I should be home around 6 or so.
Jeff
He wrote back and said it wasn’t going to be a very gay party, so why don’t we go out for drinks. Okay. Around 6 p.m., he called me at home, and we decided we’d meet up at Sheridan Square at 9:00 and walk to this gay bar called Hell. Okay. Cool.
I got to Sheridan Square at about 9:03. He wasn’t there yet. I waited. And waited. And waited. 9:15. Walked around. Waited. 9:25.
Finally, at 9:30, he showed up.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was with [Lee] and I lost track of time.”
I can’t describe how incredibly shitty I felt as a human being at this point. I felt like I was being rubbed in a pile of manure. Twice in one day, he had dissed me. He was half an hour late to meet me because he’d been with the guy for whom he’d passed me up. I stood there waiting in the cold for half an hour.
As we walked over to Hell, I was incredibly angry. I’m usually a nice guy, a friendly guy, but I was so fucking pissed off at him. It’s not like I could run off into an alley and yell or scream; I was there with him.
Finally, as we were walking, and as I kept my eyes focused on the street map he’d printed out, I had to speak.
“Okay,” I said. “If I don’t get this off my chest, I’m going to be stewing all night. I like you and I want to have a good time drinking with you tonight, but I have to say this.” And I told him how much it hurt to be dissed by him twice in one day. He apologized again, and I said that it was understandable, that I just really needed to express how I felt.
He seemed to empathize with me. Anyway, by the time we got to the bar, I felt somewhat better.
At Hell (which is only a few blocks from where Monica Lewinsky lives, by the way), we had some drinks. Several drinks. We both got pretty drunk.
And what did we talk about? Various things, including our current situation. I managed to tell him how rejected I felt, how I couldn’t understand why people could really like me but just not want to date me, a guy with all these great qualities. And he agreed that I have all these great qualities. He told me that I’m a great, passionate sex partner, that I’m cute, that I’m intelligent, that I’m empathetic. My eyes filled with tears as I was talking to him. This was a side of me he hadn’t seen before, and I was glad he saw me on the verge of crying. As weird as this may sound, I think it showed him another, deeper, facet of my personality. I think it showed him how much this was affecting me. I think it showed him that I’m not a run-of-the-mill guy.
Eventually, my leg was pressed against his leg, and he didn’t move away. Then my arm was resting on the ledge of the seat behind him, and as we continued talking, I let my thumb stroke his back. He didn’t move away from that, either.
But eventually, he did. It was nearly midnight, and he needed to get going. So we walked down Greenwich Street to Christopher Street, where my PATH station was. We were standing by the steps leading down to the subway, both of us drunk. We stood there a while. I said to him (I’m paraphrasing): “Look, I know I’m drunk… but I want you to know that I like you, and if things don’t work out with him, I’ll be here.”
He said something like, “If things didn’t work out, I’d definitely sleep with you.”
I said something like, “I really do like you, in whatever capacity it turns out to be, friendship or whatever. I like you. So, I’m here for you.”
I gave him a hug and then kissed him on the cheek.
“I’m here,” I said again.
And we said goodnight, and I walked down the stairs to catch my train.
1:13 AM | Comments Off Puffery
Seen on the side of a bus this morning, advertising a phone number for the New Jersey Quitline, to get people to quit smoking:
You Can Thank Us Later.
Like When You’re 90.
Um…
“I’ll have a thick juicy steak, some gamma rays, and some unprotected sex, please.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Oh, it’s okay, I’m not a smoker.”
12:12 PM | Comments Off Saturday, February 17, 2001
Sacred? Nah, Profane
Last night, for the fourth week in a row, I planned to go to Friday night Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, a gay and lesbian synagogue in Manhattan. And for the fourth week in a row, I was too tired and lazy to drag myself there. I first went there about a month ago, and it was an amazing feeling to walk in and see these three flags attached to flagpoles on either side of the bimah (the podium):
When I saw these flags, I felt like all aspects of my identity had come together. The American flag represented my nationality, the nation I was born into; the Israeli flag represented my religion, my upbringing, my heritage, my parents; and the rainbow flag represented my eventual decision to choose my own way — to be true to myself, even if that truth was in conflict with my parents and their hopes and dreams.
But I didn’t go tonight.
Instead, I took a nap in the evening, and when I was well rested I got up and got dressed and went to a bar called the Boiler Room in the East Village. I went by myself, open to whatever might happen; I wound up running into three guys from 20something. Two of them were on a date, so the third one and I talked for a while. The two who were on a date were sitting on a couch, if sitting is defined as one guy on the other’s lap and facing him while they dry hump and suck each other’s faces. They were really getting raunchy and several people were staring at them, including me and the other guy. It was really crossing the line into behavior that requires a private room.
Other than that, nothing too exciting happened at the bar.
Tonight I’m going to see “Traffic” with CanadaGirl, and then we might go to Wonderbar, also in the East Village. Maybe I’ll have something more exciting to report tomorrow.
6:52 PM | Comments Off Monday, February 19, 2001
Saturday night:
CanadaGirl and I saw “Traffic,” along with another lesbian UVA alumna. The theater was packed — the movie was sold out, which wasn’t surprising for a weekend following the Oscar nominations. I thought it was one of the better movies of 2000 (at least among the movies I’ve seen), although it had several disturbing moments.
After that, we went to Wonderbar, where I ran into two of the same guys who I’d seen the night before at the Boiler Room. We were there for about two hours, and the three of us — two lesbians and a gay man — discussed why I can’t seem to get up the courage (or maybe it’s the motivation) to strike up conversations with guys at bars. And guys don’t seem to come up to me at bars, either. My guess is that I give off “unapproachable” vibes. Maybe bars just are not my thing.
Yesterday:
Yesterday I didn’t do much of anything. Last night I went out on a date, which was okay, but the guy wasn’t someone I’d want to see again. And while riding the PATH train home, I ran into a UVA acquaintance whom I hadn’t seen in about eight years. How utterly bizarre.
Today:
Today I’m off from work for President’s Day. I went to Borders to return a book that I’d bought a couple of weeks ago and had finished reading. Hey… why not.
I find myself rather bored with various aspects of my life lately. Something is missing, but I’m not sure what. I’d like a boyfriend, but I sort of wouldn’t. I want a more interesting career. I want more money. I want a quieter apartment. There’s a hole in my life that needs to be filled, there’s some sort of emptiness, and I just can’t put my finger on what it needs to be filled with.
4:45 PM | Comments Off The Only Sure Things in Life
Death…
I woke up from a really freaky dream this morning. I was at some sort of get-together at someone’s apartment. I was standing, talking to someone, and on a sofa next to us was Michael Jackson — not the current plasticized Michael Jackson but the late-1970’s adolescent Michael Jackson. He was playing a video game; he was holding a joystick and the game was appearing on a TV screen. He seemed to be sexually interested in me, and after a while he asked if I wanted to play the game. So I took the controls, and then something different appeared on the screen.
It was a portrayal of what happens to you after you die.
It was from the point of view of a recently-departed soul and it showed what the soul witnesses during its transition between life and death.
First the soul was viewing its own funeral, experiencing the grief of the living. On the screen a woman’s feet appeared — it was from her point of view, looking down at her feet as she walked. She was walking through snow and was dropping rose petals with each slow step, and you could hear her sniffling and sobbing. All you could see were her feet stepping in the crunching snow, and the rose petals, and all you could hear was her sobbing. It was a very stylized expression of grief.
Then the soul began its transit to the next life. The direction seemed to be downward, but it didn’t necessarily seem like the soul was going to Hell. On the way down, the soul encountered friendly familiar beings who were responsible for its orientation to its new life. One of these friendly beings was the soul’s long-ago-departed childhood pet — a dog — which appeared in the form of a cartoon. But suddenly the cartoon dog was no longer comforting the soul but was instead reclining in the air next to the soul, as if lying on an invisible couch, and was communicating all its personal problems to the soul, making hand motions as it spoke, and so forth. The dog was talking more loudly and more insistently, sounding more and more self-absorbed, overwhelming the already confused soul instead of helping it adjust to its new life.
After that I woke up, completely bewildered and more than a little unnerved.
What does this mean? Michael Jackson and a video game were in my dream because I had encountered them recently — I had read about them in the news or something. But what about the creepier stuff? Do the dog and the soul represent different sides of myself? Am I overwhelming myself (or others) with too many personal issues? Is all this self-doubt becoming too unhealthy for me, keeping me from being content and happy?
Or does the dog represent my parents? Do parents impede their children’s growth and development and their transition to adulthood by spending too much time playing out their own internal issues instead of focusing on what their children need to become confident, secure adults?
…and Taxes
On a more earth-bound matter, tonight I did my federal income tax return, and it appears that for the first time ever, I actually owe tax. I was expecting a refund as in the past, and I was looking forward to using it to pay off some more of my debt, so imagine my surprise when I realized that I owe almost the same amount that I received as a refund last year.
I think maybe I wouldn’t be so annoyed with George W. Bush’s tax plan if a larger portion of his proposed tax cut went to those of us on the lower end of the scale.
9:46 PM | Comments Off Tuesday, February 20, 2001
Registration Required
It’s kind of stupid that the New York Times website requires you to register, but on the other hand, it’s quick and it’s free, and in the nearly five years that I’ve used the site, I haven’t received a single e-mail from the Times.
Anyway, register, because there’s a pretty interesting in-depth piece today about Bush v. Gore: Election Case a Test and a Trauma for Justices, by the Times’s Pulitzer Prize-winning Linda Greenhouse, attempting to go behind the scenes during that crazy time. She writes that “any attempt to construct a narrative of those 20 days encounters substantial gaps and intriguing unanswered questions,” but she notes that since the case ended, “the justices are behaving almost like survivors of a natural disaster who need to talk about what happened in order to regain their footing and move on.”
I know one of Chief Justice Rehnquist’s current law clerks (each justice has three or four clerks each term) — we sang together in a college a cappella group and then went on to the same law school. A few days after the final decision in Bush v. Gore came down, I e-mailed him and asked him if he could tell me anything about what those several days had been like. He responded that although he couldn’t reveal any details, the chaos was outweighed by the “coolness” of the whole thing, and that this would probably be the highlight of his professional career. “Many of my co-clerks had feared that our term would pale in comparison to last term’s sexy constitutional cases, but I think we’ve scored big with the elections cases,” he wrote. Yeah, I’d say so.
3:00 PM | Comments Off Wednesday, February 21, 2001
The Lox
Sometimes, when I’m at my parents’ house, our 14-year-old dog will just lie there on the ground, sleeping. My parents like to say that she’s lying there “like a lox.” That’s right — like a piece of smoked salmon. I have no idea where the expression comes from, but it seems to work, and that’s sort of how I feel today. Like a lox.
Last night I was online chatting with someone until about 2:45 in the morning. It wasn’t supposed to be that long — we began chatting at 11:00 at night and the hours just went by. In the meantime, my upstairs neighbor — who I think is about 20 and is an asshole — came home late at night with two of his female friends and I could hear them talking and laughing and watching TV and playing a videogame or something. The walls and ceilings in my building are shoddily constructed. They barely block out noise. Really sucks. I’ve talked to him before about the noise, but he just doesn’t care. I’ll have to put on some Clintonian smooth moves or something, make him want to turn down the noise because he likes me so much.
At any rate, after finishing the chat I was exhausted and wanted to go to bed, but I couldn’t because of the noise. Finally, I found my earplugs, plugged them into my ears, tuned my radio to static, and managed to fall asleep around 4.
At 9 I woke up, called in to work and said I wasn’t feeling well and would be in late… I slept until noon, got to work around 1. Today at work we were having a multicultural pot luck lunch or something, so I stuffed myself with food. Now it’s 3:30 in the afternoon, I have a legal memo I’m supposed to turn in on Friday that I’m way behind on, and what have I been doing? Writing e-mail, talking with people, and now I’m blogging. I just have a mental block on this particular memo — I can’t seem to concentrate on it. It’s actually no great tragedy if I don’t finish it on Friday, except that I’ve had so much time to work on it and it will seem odd if I don’t turn it in by then.
If I had my way, I would spend my day surfing the Internet, reading about the news, writing, blogging, reading blogs, reading books.
3:21 PM | Comments Off Thursday, February 22, 2001
Here are lots of ratings. Ratings of everything from the movie “Traffic,” to state quarters, to Fisher Price Little People, to Israeli snack foods, to the Legion of Doom, to marsupials. They’re all by L. Fitzgerald Sjoberg. I’m not sure who L. Fitzgerald Sjoberg is, but he or she is pretty entertaining. There’s supposed to be an umlaut over the “o” in Sjoberg, but I don’t particularly want to figure out how to make an umlaut right now. Unless it’s a cheese umlaut, because I’m hungry, and I feel like some eggs.
9:42 AM | Comments Off The Web and Collective Memory
I doubt I’m the first person to write about this, but: it’s incredible what the World Wide Web has done for our childhood memories. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote about the Oversoul, about the existence of a collective unconscious; well, the Web is the home of our collective unconscious pop culture remembrances. You won’t find a site devoted to your childhood dog, or your fourth birthday party, or your sixth grade math teacher; but if you played with a toy, or watched a TV show, or had a particular lunch box, it’s catalogued somewhere on the Web. Stumble across one page, and the memories can come rushing back.
This used to happen at late-night sleepover parties or on long bus trips, or late at night in college dorm rooms. A bunch of people would be sitting around, bored, and someone would say, “Hey, remember that old TV show with…” or, “Did you ever have that toy that used to…” and then the conversation would take off like a rocket, and for the next hour, people would be coming up with long-lost TV shows or videogames and humming theme songs and whatnot.
This is a very modern phenomenon — I can’t picture a bunch of 18th-century adults sitting around and having a collective nostalgiafest, because they didn’t have any collective nostalgia, did they? Maybe they could talk about what it was like to milk a cow, or they could reminisce about the smell of burning leaves in autumn; but it’s really the rise of mass culture that has allowed adults to get together and commune over thousands of old memories.
And it’s so weird to be able to do that. Sometimes those old memories seem so private, so uniquely yours, that you wonder if they’re real: that red electronic toy called Merlin, or the arcade game Gauntlet, or child stars Alisdair, Lisa Ruddy, and Christine (a.k.a “Moose”) from You Can’t Do That on Television. Am I the only person who remembers these things?
And then you stumble across a website called Yesterdayland, and you realize that there are other people with exactly the same memories — and they even remember some things you’d completely forgotten about. It’s all out there:
– Merlin and Simon, two primitive electronic toys I remember from the early 80’s.
– the Frog family, who lived in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood before the Platypus family and their platypus mound replaced them.
- the phrases “Elf shot the food!” and “Valkyrie is about to die…” from the arcade game Gauntlet.
- the way the Bloodhound Gang used to answer the phone on 3-2-1 Contact: “Whenever there’s trouble we’re there on the double, Mr. Bloodhound isn’t here.” (It was that last part I’d forgotten about.)
- Wacky Pack stickers.
- “The Flintstones Comedy Hour,” which included the Shmoo, Captain Caveman (his alter ego was Chester, the newsboy at the Daily Granite), and a prehistoric version of the Munsters.
They’re not just dreams. They’re real. It all really happened. And it’s all at Yesterdayland.
1:26 PM | Comments Off