I want to apologize for the recent lameness of my blog.

I know I haven’t written about anything juicy. That is by choice.

I seem to be over the whole write-about-my-life-for-public-consumption thing. It feels too self-indulgent and unnatural, like I’m the star of a reality show. And I hate reality shows. I don’t watch them.

Which reminds me — despite writing a lot about TV here lately, I really don’t watch much of it. For the most part, I turn on the TV only when I want to watch a particular show. Lately that’s just “Buffy” and “Smallville,” and recently “Angel” as well. I also watch TV during dinner, which is usually FX reruns of “Buffy” anyway, or maybe reruns of “Friends,” and I turn it off when I’m done. I don’t watch TV news; too sensational and fear-inducing and fake. I get my news from the newspaper instead. (This means that I don’t have depressing stories about the state of the world forced upon me. I prefer it that way. In the past year and a half, I’ve been trying not to dwell on such things, since I can’t control them.)

All of this makes me largely pop-culture illiterate, but I’m okay with that. I don’t want to mindlessly consume bits of effluvia just because they’re out there. I prefer to pursue my own interests rather than choose from among the limited Wal-Martish options that are presented to us. I have no desire to see “Kangaroo Jack,” and I’m surprised so many people felt differently.

On top of all this, I think I’m oversensitive to noise. I usually can’t deal with too many different stimuli at once. Some people thrive in a sea of sound; not me. It drives me nuts. I prefer quiet.

I try to live deliberately.

Ain’t I a curmudgeon? Sometimes I think I’m living in the wrong century.

I’ve been working on my screenplay lately.

I started this thing almost a year ago. I took a 10-week screenwriting class last spring, and I actually started and finished a first draft during those 10 weeks. My instructor had never had a student actually finish a first draft before, but I decided I was going to do it. I took it as a challenge, I think. So I finished it the night before the final class, and I’ve been working on the script intermittently since then.

A standard movie screenplay is between 90 and 120 pages. My first draft was 151 pages — too long. In my second draft I managed to cut out 50 of those pages. My most recent draft is 104 pages, which is more where it should be.

It’s a story I’d always wanted to write. In fact, I’d tried several times before. I tried it as a short story; I tried it as a novel. Those efforts went nowhere, because I kept getting bogged down in descriptive, flowery prose.

Then I tried it as a screenplay, and the story just flowed out of me.

Doing it as a script enabled me to get on with the damn story. It feels so much more alive, and it was more fun to write. The dialogue just flowed down the page, plunk plunk plunk. I’m good at dialogue — I wrote my own three-week cheesy daytime soap opera when I was 14 (gay much?) and wrote a bunch of scenes during a yearlong playwriting class in college. The screenplay I’ve been writing actually flowed out of one of those extended playwriting scenes.

I presented about 40 pages of my first draft during my screenwriting class, and I got really good vibes from both my instructor and the other students. Now my script is nearly at a point where I’m ready to start showing it to friends so I can get feedback from them. And then… I try to get it out there into the world.

And if this screenplay doesn’t sell just yet, that’s OK — I’ve already got some other story ideas.

Almost two years ago, I wrote this, the story of what was possibly the most romantic night of my entire life, ever.

I never got a chance to thank him, and since then I’ve had no idea how to contact him. I’ve been able to find no information, not even on the Web.

And then last week I was talking to my old UVA friend Mark, and he told me that he’s been in touch with the guy recently. He sent me his e-mail address.

I’m so excited. Now I’ll finally be able to thank him, to tell him how much that night meant to me. If he even remembers.

It appears that someone at Amazon.com has restored some of the cuts that the original editor made to my review of “The Journey of Jared Price.” After I saw what they did to my review the first time, I clicked on “edit my review” and restored everything they’d taken out. Today I noticed that someone has restored a “gay” and a few other sentences that were originally omitted.

They still left out my closing sentence, though:

“Basically, the movie had the production quality of a porn video with little of the payoff.”

Dammit. I really liked that sentence.
—–

Words I Never Want to Hear Gay Men Use Again, Part I

fabulous

Function: adjective

Etymology: Middle English, from Latin fabulosus, from fabula

Date: 15th century

1 a : resembling or suggesting a fable : of an incredible, astonishing, or exaggerated nature (fabulous wealth) b : WONDERFUL, MARVELOUS (had a fabulous time)

2 : told in or based on fable

synonym see FICTITIOUS

– fab·u·lous·ly adverb

– fab·u·lous·ness noun

(via Merriam-Webster Online)

It makes me think of glitter and sequins. Call me uptight, but enough already.

Here’s an update on this.

I wrote him later that morning. I reminded him who I was, and I included a very slightly modified version of the story as I wrote it here. And I told him that I wanted him to know how much that night meant to me.

The wonders of e-mail: not 25 minutes later, he wrote me back. Our first interaction in almost nine years, and it took no time at all.

He wrote that he does remember me and my “sudden flight from those steps that evening.” He then gave me a short rundown of his life over the past nine years. He’s gone through lots of hard times; he was surprisingly open with me about it. In fact, I was startled to realize that although I’ve thought about that night so many times that he’s attained mythic status in my mind, he was only human. Vulnerable.

The best part was the ending:

Anyhow, your complimentary journal entry just lifted my spirits, and I thank you very much for that. Your entry will resonate sweetly in my head for the remainder of the day.

Please keep in touch. You seem to have a good heart and mind.

Say something good to someone today.

It’s not easy being short.

Last night, after a very nice time with someone at a Tori Amos concert at Radio City Music Hall, I met up with a tall acquaintance of mine at a club in the East Village. When my acquaintance told me the name of the club over the phone, it sounded like “Overline.” When I was looking for the place and trying to remember the name of it, all I could come up with was “Ovaltine.” It turns out it’s called Opaline.

My friend is maybe 6’2″ and very outgoing. He’s always getting guys’ phone numbers and going on dates. It’s pretty amazing to see him work it; I got to witness it three times last night.

I don’t like crowded clubs. I’m very shy in those situations, and my self-esteem always drops at least five notches. Also, I never think I’m going to meet anyone. Sure, there are tons of cute guys all over the club, but how am I supposed to find out which cute guy is compatible with me, if any?

And being short makes it worse. I stand there in a field of tall trees. People don’t even notice me as they push past me with their beer bottles. All 125 pounds of me gets knocked out of the way. I may as well be invisible.

Tall people seem to have it so much easier. They seem to have more power. More attractiveness. I watch my tall friend talk with another tall guy, and I just look up at both of them, these skyscrapers, and feel useless and impotent. I feel like the world was made for them and they just ease along a frictionless path.

I’m not saying that short guys aren’t found attractive. Sure we are. And I don’t have a height preference myself. I like guys of almost any height.

What I’m talking about is something other than sexual attraction. What I’m talking about is power. Or rather, the appearance of power.

It’s not like I can do anything about being 5’6″, though, so it’s best just to deal with it and move on.

”It was all very camp, because many of the guys who wore it first were gay and had more in common with the chicks who were chasing the ultra-butch karate guy. Gay bars during this period reeked of Hai Karate and Aramis.”

— “Martial Lore,” about the 1970s mystique that was Hai Karate aftershave, from the special Men’s Fashion section of today’s New York Times. (And now I’m really curious to smell the stuff.)

For the past week I’ve been fixated on the idea of getting a new computer.

My apologies if you came here today for tawdry stories.

It takes me FOREVER to decide to spend money. Even when it’s not my own. For my birthday a few months ago, I asked my parents for a new TV to replace the basic 19-inch RCA model that I got in 1995. I was thinking of a plain old TV, but my dad suggested a Sony Wega. Fine. So I asked for a 20-inch Wega. I figured I could be satisfied with that. But he said I should get a 24-inch. When I finally agreed to the 24, he suggested the 27. I finally let him get me the 27, but it took some convincing.

My current home computer is a Micron Transport XKE, a laptop that I got way back in March 1998 (and it actually came out several months before that). It has a 200 MHz processor. And 32 MB of RAM. And a 2 GB hard drive. And I dial up via AOL. So my computer is really really slow (even slower since I upgraded to Windows 98), and I’m almost out of storage space. And I sit on the floor to use the thing.

I want a new computer. And I want a freaking computer desk. And I want DSL. I want to go all out.

I have been going over the following options:

Build my own computer. This would save money, and I honestly think it would be kind of fun. I’ve been poring over the buying guide at Ars Technica, particularly the Budget Box. I’m just nervous that I’d accidentally fry a part or screw something up or would find myself at a dead end, and then who would I call? Still — fun and a little cheaper.

Buy a new Dell. This would save time and stress. But it would be more expensive.

Buy a refurbished Dell. This would be less expensive and it would likely still work great.

I could buy a computer from another company, but Dell is just the sexiest. And the Dell guy is kinda hot, of course.

As to other considerations, I don’t know whether to get 256 or 512 RAM, a 30 or 60 GB hard drive, a flat panel monitor or not, a DVD drive or not.

I’ve been obsessing and stressing about this for days.

This Friday I will finally wipe out my credit card debt. So I don’t know whether to keep my credit card debt at zero and wait three or four months to save up the money to buy something, or put debt back onto my credit card and pay it off over three or four months. The latter would be psychologically bad, but instantly gratifying.

I think I’ll just buy an abacus and some tin cans and string.

Well, I did it!

Last night I ordered a brand new Dell. None of this build-my-own-computer crap. None of this refurbished crap.

It’s going to have a 2.53-GHz processor, 512 MB RAM, 60 GB hard drive, DVD-ROM drive, CD/DVD burner drive, and a floppy drive, and the mouse is an optical mouse. I was going to get a CD burner drive, but I figured if I’m going to have this thing for a few years, why not go all the way and get a CD/DVD burner? Maybe I’ll want to burn DVDs at some point.

And I just ordered a computer desk with hutch from Staples, which will arrive tomorrow. I guess I’ll be putting it together this weekend.

I’ve also ordered DSL.

Wheeeeeeee!

I had therapy on Tuesday night, and we discussed why it’s so hard for me to spend money on myself.

Too often, when I look at the world around me, I see only its skeleton. I get so focused on survival that I forget that I’m allowed to experience some of life’s sweetness as well.

This is particularly difficult when it comes to money. In the past, I’ve felt that if I spend too much money, I’m being irresponsible. The problem is, although I grew up learning that one shouldn’t spend money unwisely, I forgot the “unwisely” part. It’s probably not a good idea to spend money just to spend it; but the fact is, it’s okay to spend money on things you want. After all, that’s what money is for — not just shelter and food, but extras.

I’m going to try to remember this. I’m going to try to see not just the skeleton of the world, but all the sweet extra goodies it has as well.

Wheeeeeeee!

Sign #204 I’m watching too much “Buffy.”

I saw the following headline on the front page of the New York Times this morning:

Frist Forsakes Deal Making
To Focus on Party Principles

and at first I thought it said:

First Forsakes Deal Making
To Focus on Party Principles

Jeez, what was I thinking?

We all know the First is in the White House, not the Senate.

Spring fever hit today. It was gorgeous out — 60 degrees, which, while not summery, was balmy enough to stir up my hormones as I walked around sunny Manhattan, looking at all the T-shirted boys.

The day was even better because I finally got to meet Faustus. He was cute and charming, as I’d expected he’d be. I was about to write “he was as cute and charming as I’d expected he’d be,” except that could be interpreted wrongly, as it would leave open to interpretation whether I’d actually expected him to be cute and charming, which I did, and how cute and charming he was, which was quite.

So, this weather. It’s odd — all winter long I’ve been waiting for a day like today. For months I’ve Zenned myself into visions of lying out on a towel in Central Park. Of not wearing a jacket. Of late sunsets. Of T-shirted boys. And such a day has finally arrived, and what did I feel?

Pressure.

The kind of pressure you feel when you don’t have plans on New Year’s Eve.

Everyone seemed to be out and about, having fun. Before coming home, I went down to Chelsea and walked around. I thought I’d hop into Starbucks and sip something and write, but Starbucks was too crowded. I wasn’t in a Big Cup mood, but it was close by, so I walked up Eighth Avenue to check it out — and the sidewalk outside the place was mobbed. Mobbed with identical, cute, hair-closely-cropped, T-shirted boys. And there were no seats inside. And I wasn’t in a mood to pose anyway. So I left.

I had it in my head that everyone was out and about, having fun and singing and jumping and running and playing and flirting. And I felt like I had to do the same. In fact, I sort of wanted to do the same. But instead, I was walking around Chelsea alone.

I hope the next six months don’t feel like this. They probably won’t, but… you wonder sometimes.

I think I need some new T-shirts.
—–

Today I decided to change the title of my screenplay. The working title didn’t, well, work anymore.

But in giving it a new title, I did something that I usually criticize in screenplay titles.

I began it with a present participle.

There are so many movies out there that begin with present participles, and for some reason it’s always gotten on my nerves — precisely because it’s done so often. For example:

I guess I’m selling out.

What examples can you come up with?

(That is, examples of movies that follow this title format — not examples of me selling out.)

I got my new computer yesterday! I’m so psyched, even though we’ll all be dead by next week.

I wish someone had told me how odd this site looks on a 1024 x 768 monitor using Internet Explorer 6.

I forgot to write about my gay gallery tour last Saturday afternoon. A friend of mine had read about a tour of Chelsea art galleries for gay men. You pay 15 bucks for a whirlwind tour of 10 galleries in two hours.

It turned out that the tour was organized by the Date Bait Guy. If you live in New York and you’ve gone to Date Bait, you know who I mean. The guy who runs Date Bait, who’s probably a nice man and who probably doesn’t deserve to be made fun of by me without his knowledge but of whom I will now make fun anyway, has thinning gray hair and a paunch and is kind of greasy-looking. At Date Bait, he charges you $15 to stand up and humiliate yourself and get maybe two or three matches for dates, whom you will see maybe twice at most and then never speak to again. If 60 people show up for Date Bait, the guy makes 900 bucks, with little overhead cost. And he does this twice a month. It’s ingenious, really.

My friend knew that Date Bait Guy was also Gay Gallery Tour Guy, and I think he told me this, but I must have suppressed it.

We met at the appointed gallery at the appointed time. Gay Art Gallery/Date Bait Guy was there, of course, and he energetically asked us to sign the sign-in sheet and pay 15 bucks, just as energetically as he’d asked me on three prior occasions to sign the Date Bait sheet and pay 15 bucks. He was wearing this little holster on his belt that held what looked like a hot pink phallic aluminum flashlight. I wasn’t sure why. It was sunny out.

I surveyed the crowd. It wasn’t just gay men — there were some straight couples, too. I grimaced, because this would mess with my cruising karma.

Once everyone was signed in and ready, Gay Art Gallery/Date Bait Guy began his spiel. He said that he visits 100 galleries a month and selects what he thinks are the ten most worthwhile exhibitions. One hundred galleries a month? I guess when you’re a Date Bait/Gay Art Gallery Entrepreneur, you don’t need a day job.

He said that he’d advertised his tour not just in gay publications, but also in some straight ones. Well, that explained the straight people. He then said that the tour was designed primarily for gay men. “I’m gay,” he said. Like that wasn’t totally obvious. “Not all of the artists whose work we’ll be seeing are gay, but some of them are, and I’ll point them out as we go along.” Well, that was a huge relief, because of course I judge each and every human being on his or her sexual orientation, and on nothing but his or her sexual orientation, including visual artists.

He handed out copies of the itinerary, in case anyone got lost.

He then whipped out the hot pink phallus, as well as a little baton with a ball on the end. These were apparently his signalling system. “One bell means I’m about to discuss the artwork.” Bing, he demonstrated, and it rang out clear as an elevator bell. Fourth floor. Ladies’ lingerie. “Two bells means we’re getting ready to leave.” Bing, bing. And then the tour began.

I recognized one of the attendees. He had scraggly brown hair and a brown mustache and Coke bottle glasses, and he walked very fast and had to be the first person into every gallery. He was creepy. It took me a while to place him, and then I realized I’d seen him at Date Bait before. At the Date Bait for 20/30somethings. He was about 45.

My friend and I abandoned the tour after the third gallery and went ahead on our own, printed itinerary in hand. It was kind of embarrassing to be part of the huge tour group, especially when I saw random hot guys who clearly weren’t part of the tour group, and also, the group moved too slowly.

We saw some pretty great art work, to Date Bait/Gay Art Gallery Guy’s credit. That alone was worth the 15 bucks. We saw geometric tiled paintings with guts exploding. We saw mobiles by Alexander Calder, and, while intently watching them, got intently watched by an unreasonably suspicious security guard, which was disconcerting, since we were the only two visitors in the whole gallery. (We wondered how he’d handle the 34-person tour group just minutes behind us.) We saw some wonderful photographs by Nan Goldin of couples, gay and straight, making love. We saw some fucked-up cartoon art. We saw a rug made entirely of Band-Aids. It was fun and worthwhile.

Now, not all of my blog entries are gay, but some of them are, and I’ll point them out as we go along.

Just follow the hot pink phallus…

I was a senior in high school when the first Gulf War began. My family and I were living in Tokyo, Japan, at the time, so it was about 9:00 in the morning on Thursday, January 17. I was sitting in calculus class.

As the world had approached the January 15 deadline and Saddam still wouldn’t get out of Kuwait, I’d read the International Herald Tribune at home every night, feeling the tension grow. My friends and I would talk about the impending war during our 75-minute train ride out to the American School in Japan. Many of my friends loved to blab about politics and religion and anything controversial. (The cool kids called us the Nerd Herd.) Riding to school that morning, the deadline behind us but war not yet begun, we were in full blather.

So it wasn’t a surprise when, sitting in class shortly after 9:00, I saw my friend appear in the doorway near the back of the room, holding up a handwritten sign that said “WAR.” Not a surprise, but still kind of shocking.

The administration set up a big TV in the school lobby. My school didn’t have periods — when you weren’t in class, your time was your own — so a changing crowd gathered in front of the TV as the day went on. I remember talking with one of my friends in physics class later that day, saying to him, “I can’t believe our country is at war.” At war. Our country is at war. The words sounded so strange. It was like this huge legalism had clicked into place. I could hear the gears shift. Things just felt different.

That afternoon I rode home with a friend of mine. We listened to the news on Walkmans. Or maybe we listened together on his Walkman. I can’t remember. But that night (or maybe it was the next night), a few of my friends came over and we sat on the couch together, glued to CNN, watching Richard Roth report from Israel as Scud missiles fell.

That Saturday, our school’s annual Battle of the Bands went on as scheduled. Student rock bands from the international schools in the Tokyo area came out to ASIJ to compete. My friend Joe, an amazing guitar player, channeled the ghost of Jimi Hendrix by playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” on his electric guitar.

It brought down the house, and his band won.

Because we were Americans living overseas, our school took some precautions. Many ASIJ students rode to school on buses that said “The American School in Japan” in big letters. The administration decided to cover those signs for a while, so they wouldn’t draw attention to the fact that there were American kids on board. Sure, this was Japan, a very safe country, but we were still living overseas.

Had we been in the States at the time, of course, we would have felt safe and secure. The United States was the most powerful country in the world.

Our nation might have been at war, but nothing bad would ever happen on American soil.

That would be unthinkable.

Spring begins tonight at about 8:00 Eastern Standard Time. I don’t know about you, but to me, nothing says “vernal equinox” quite like going to war!

That and the smell of freshly-cut grass.

I know there’s a war on, but I’m annoyed at New York’s Channel 11, our local affiliate of the Frog Network. They cut in with war coverage at around 9:55 last night. “Angel” had a minute or two left, at most. They couldn’t wait one or two more minutes? Did they think they were missing out on an exclusive? The WB doesn’t even have its own news team. They had to carry the CNN feed. I could have done that by switching channels.

I guess it makes sense, though, as CNN is owned by AOL Time Warner, and that’s AOL Time Warner, as in “Warner Brothers,” as in the WB. (AOL Time Warner also owns DC Comics, which owns the rights to Superman, which I guess is why “Smallville” runs on the WB.)

UPN, meanwhile, would seem to be owned by Fox, because UPN was carrying the Fox News Channel last night. But no, it’s owned by Viacom, just like CBS, so I don’t know why it wasn’t broadcasting CBS. Not that I would have understood that either. While I can sort of understand the WB broadcasting CNN, as non-cable viewers don’t have CNN, both Fox and UPN were broadcasting the Fox News Channel last night, and they’re both over-the-air networks. A tad redundant, no?

By the way, Fox is owned by News Corporation, a.k.a. Rupert Murdoch.

We’re living in a media conglomerocracy.

So last night, in a media craze, I basically found myself switching among General Electric, Viacom, AOL Time Warner, News Corporation, and Disney.

It’s a frickin’ miracle Willow was able to show up on “Angel” last night.

But I guess witches who speak bad Latin can pretty much do anything they want.

Hooray! and Hooray!

I’m shocked, shocked to find that bombing is going on there.

Oh, and awed.

Except not really.

Okay, I guess I’m awed.

What a strange world. I can sit at my desk and munch on a turkey sandwich with provolone, lettuce, tomato and mustard while watching NBC News live coverage of buildings being destroyed by cruise missiles half a world away. (By the way, if you go to WNBC.com, the website of New York’s NBC affiliate, you can find a link to live video of Tom Brokaw and NBC News, with a bigger screen and better sound than on the MSNBC site.)

Last night I got home from work and pretty much sat at my computer until about 1:30 in the morning, when I finally went to bed. Now that I’ve got a fast computer and broadband, I love downloading stuff! Audio! Video! I’ve downloaded everything from Cavalli’s Salve Regina to, um… stuff that’s a little more risqué.

To think I used to be satisfied with still pictures.

Oh. My. God.

I think tonight I’ll type “bel ami” into Kazaa-Lite and see what I come up with.

Someone better invite me out this weekend, or I might not leave my apartment.

Several weeks ago, I was in a chat room. I began a conversation with someone. He responded, to my surprise, that we’d chatted before.

I couldn’t place him, so he sent me a photo of him and his boyfriend.

Unfortunately, I still wasn’t sure whom I was chatting with, because it turned out I’d slept with both guys in the photo before, at different times, apparently while they were already living together.

It’s similar to this time I went over to someone’s apartment to hook up, and the guy explained to me that it was his ex-boyfriend’s apartment, and that they were now friends, and that he was staying there while the ex-boyfriend was away, and I realized I’d been in that very same apartment before, to hook up with the ex-boyfriend, before he was an ex.

It’s a small gay world, isn’t it?

Perhaps this could be called six degrees of penetration.

Some thoughts about the Oscars:

I want to marry Adrien Brody.

I was so happy when he won the Oscar for best actor. Tears came into my eyes, and they kept coming back into my eyes over the next 20 minutes because I couldn’t stop thinking about his moment of glory. His kiss of Halle Berry; his dignified comments about the dehumanization of war; his mention of his buddy in Kuwait; and, most wonderfully, his ability to silence Stick Man’s exit music with a simple, relaxed, “Cut it out.” I’m glad Gil Cates knew to relax the time limit for the sake of a beautiful moment.

Marry me, Adrien. We’re both 29 years old and we were both born in New York City, so there’d be no generation gap and no cultural gap. I know it’s sudden, and I know you’re not gay, but just think about it, okay? Plus, a friend of mine thinks you’ve got the sexiest nose.

Although I loved Bowling for Columbine, I had mixed feelings about Michael Moore’s speech, primarily because he’d given the exact same speech the night before at the Independent Spirit Awards. Say it once, it’s witty. Say it more than once, it’s schtick. On the other hand, it was refreshing to hear someone be so direct and unafraid. “Shame on you, Mr. Bush, shame on you.” Loved it. I was disheartened and surprised by all the boos he received for speaking his mind. Since when has Hollywood been so afraid of offending George W. Bush?

There was something loopy about fag-loving Barbra Streisand awarding an Oscar to fag-hating Eminem, whether or not his fag-hating is real or ironic or poststructuralist or whatever. And I loved how his co-winner kept referring to him as Marshall. Doesn’t it take away from his mystique? You can almost hear his mother: “Marshall Mathers, turn off that television set and go clean your room!”

At least Eminem’s non-appearance cut about five minutes off the broadcast, since his nominated song wasn’t performed. Roman Polanski’s no-show cut out another two or three minutes. I wish more had been cut, though. I really didn’t need to sit through seven minutes of past Oscar winners. I would have been happy with just the oldest of the old, such as Olivia de Haviland (didn’t she look great?) and Luise Rainer (93!), instead of sitting through that self-congratulatory we’re-in-the-club-and-you’re-not thing, and then parading out the four newest winners like they’ve just been initiated into the Yale Skull and Bones Society or something.

It was kind of strange to have those Peter Jennings interludes. “War in Iraq.” People were killed today. Thank you, and now back to Steve Martin! It’s odd that Peter Jennings and the annual Oscars broadcast are emblematic of the same TV network, and yet they represent totally different ends of the spectrum.

I liked the montage of past musical numbers. I just wish they’d shown the Snow White fiasco. It was neat to see Isaac Hayes, though. I’d love to watch an entire Oscar broadcast from the late 70s. I bet it would be a blast.

After The Pianist won best adapted screenplay and best director, I thought there was a chance it might actually beat Chicago to win Best Picture. Oh well. It’s not that I didn’t like Chicago; it was done terrifically well. It’s just that it didn’t speak to me like The Hours and Far From Heaven and The Pianist did. The Hours and Far From Heaven were my two favorite movies from last year, and I’ve already downloaded both of them onto my new computer.

The broadcast itself seemed zippier than in the past. Thank goodness for the time limit on speeches. Pedro Almodovar would have yammered on for 10 minutes without it. I actually saw Talk to Her yesterday afternoon, and it was wonderful. I hope to write screenplays as creative as his.

And then I can make lots of money, and Adrien Brody and I can move into a beautiful brownstone out in Park Slope.

I bought a webcam on Sunday. I figured that since I have a snazzy new computer, and a desk to put it on, I may as well buy some computer accessories.

The cam will be viewable on my site from time to time here. As I write this, the most recent image is the one you see above, from last night, because right now it’s daytime and I’m at work.

I’ve realized, to my disappointment, that I can’t simultaneously stream video to my website and use the cam to chat on an instant-messenging program such as Yahoo! Messenger. That might be for the better, though, because so far, I’ve watched myself eat a bowl of spaghetti, and it wasn’t pretty.

I actually explored the Yahoo! chat rooms last night, and lots of people wanted to view my cam, and I let them. In fact, this random guy told me to take my shirt off. Didn’t ask me — told me. I declined, because I couldn’t see him and it felt creepy.

I’m glad I declined, because later I watched myself shirtless. And I’ve realized that if, for some reason, I do decide to take off my shirt in a private chat, I must change either my bedroom lighting or the camera angle, because on camera I looked thin and pasty.

Anyway, I didn’t get a webcam so people could see my body parts. I got a webcam because —

Because —

You know, now that I think about it, I don’t really know why I got a webcam.

Spaghetti, anyone?

My review of last night’s “Buffy.”

I’m thinking of getting a gay ring.

I’ve never worn a ring — not a class ring, not a wedding ring, not a Kryptonite ring to ward off Superman. (I’m not sure why I’d want to do that anyway. I like Superman.) But in the last few weeks I’ve met several gay men who have rings. The ring is usually silver colored. Sometimes it’s a flat band that wraps around a thumb or finger, sometimes it’s two rings intertwined on one finger, sometimes it’s something else. I’ve seen rings on gay guys before, but for some reason I’ve been noticing them a lot more lately. They look pretty, and slightly artsy, and rebellious. But in a safe way.

Now, I pride myself on being a generally masculine guy. Okay, sure, I don’t really like sports, and I’m into music and theater and writing, and I’m sensitive and emotionally perceptive, and I have several ringer tees and a long-sleeve baseball tee in my dresser, and I like to have sex with men —

Aw, crap. I may as well just complete the picture and get a frickin’ ring.

Being somewhat neurotic, though, I’ve been wondering if people would accuse me of trying to look like every other gay man out there, or tell me that a ring is just not me and that I’m trying to be something I’m not, or tell me it’s not manly enough. I’ve also been wondering if a silver-colored gay ring would go with being a white-collar professional.

Also if it would be annoying to have a little piece of metal wrapped around my finger all the time.

Still, I think I want to go ring-shopping. Unfortunately, I don’t know where to buy one.

Anyone know where I can buy one? Please leave comments here or e-mail me.

Here are my two favorite excerpts from today’s New York Times movie reviews, both written by Elvis Mitchell.

On “The Core”:

The brazen silliness of “The Core” is becalming and inauthentic, like taking a bath in nondairy coffee creamer.

On “Basic”:

Someone decided to put “Rashomon” in a Cuisinart along with “A Few Good Men,” “The Usual Suspects” and “A Soldier’s Story,” and hit the pulverize button while forgetting to replace the top. The outcome is a spewing mess spinning at 300 r.p.m.

Reviews of bad movies are so much fun.
—–

Last night I had this really vivid, intense dream.

In the dream, I had strong feelings for this one particular guy, and, miracle of miracles, he told me he felt the same. There was even a little sex. It was a wonderful dream.

And then we were standing on the 23rd Street platform waiting for the northbound F train, and he started to talk about how he liked vampires. He was really into them. It started to creep me out a little.

And then he turned into one.

Full-out Sunnydale vampire face.

And then he started trying to tempt me, telling me how great it was to be a vampire, wanting to turn me into one, too.

It scared me to death.

You know, this could be why I’m still single.

On Saturday afternoon I saw “Bend It Like Beckham.” If you’re in the U.K., you’ve probably already seen it. If it’s currently playing in the U.S. where you are, run out and see it yesterday. I hate to use a cliché such as “feel-good movie,” but it’s a terrifically wonderful feel-good movie. It’s also the best movie with a big Indian wedding that I’ve seen since last year’s “Monsoon Wedding.” (Also the only movie with a big Indian wedding that I’ve seen since last year’s “Monsoon Wedding,” but that’s beside the point.)

I love you Brits, innit? (Am I using that correctly?) I don’t know what it is about you guys, but I love you. And that’s good, because — U.K. bloggers take note — I plan to visit London sometime this summer, as a friend of mine will be living there for six months. I’ll visit, that is, if I can get over my post-9/11 fear of flying, which I pretty much was over, until I saw yesterday’s Times article about the threat of shoulder-launched missiles being fired at airplanes.

Yay.

In other news, my love life sucks. More accurately, it’s nonexistent, which is usually (but not always) the same thing. It’s a common story: I’m interested in him but he’s not interested in me, or vice versa. The thing is, I know that getting a boyfriend isn’t going to solve the other issues in my life — in fact, it might complicate them — so while getting a boyfriend seems to be a priority for me in theory, when push comes to shove I don’t seem to be willing to lower my expectations just yet.

And then yesterday I watched Woody Allen’s “Husbands and Wives,” which is about how romance is hard and how sometimes you have to lower your expectations. And that’s for straight people, who have a dating pool 20 times larger than we do. It kind of depressed me.

You know, last night, for the second time in less than a week, I dreamed that my family’s old dog was still alive. We put her to sleep almost two years ago, and I’ve dreamed about her from time to time. And now twice in one week.

And I think I know why.

I think it’s related to my recent glumness in the romance department.

Basically, I think it says a lot about my capacity for a relationship that other than a family member, the only being whom I’ve ever been able to love unconditionally is a dog.

Innit?