It is 2:30 a.m. of a Monday, spring semester, 1983. Things are looking extremely good. Forty-eight hours of high-intensity stack work and some inspired typing have produced the thirty-page final paper for Modern European History (Mr. Blague, MW 9-10) that you were supposed to be working on all semester but that an unfortunate dispute involving a car, which, as you have repeatedly pointed out, really wasn’t in such good shape when you borrowed it, has prevented you from giving the time and attention you sincerely intended.

Please read Louis Menand’s review of the new edition of The Chicago Manual of Style, which appears in this week’s New Yorker and is one of the funniest things I’ve ever read in that magazine.

I think the WB made a brilliant move in putting “Smallville” and “Angel” together on the same night this season, primarily because those are the only two shows on the WB that I watch. I’m glad they took my needs into account. The only problem is that I’ve also begun watching “The West Wing” again after a year and a half away from it, and it’s on opposite “Angel.” So two nights ago I watched the season premiere of “Angel” and taped “The West Wing” to watch afterwards. It’s just a wonderful night of TV joy.

I’m glad “Smallville” is on at 8:00 now. It’s more appropriate as an 8:00 show than a 9:00 show. The odd thing about Tuesday nights last year was switching the channel at 8:59 from UPN (“Buffy”) to the WB (“Smallville”), instead of the other way around. “Buffy,” which was on at 8, was really a 9 p.m. show, while “Smallville” was the opposite. But now everything’s in alignment and I don’t even have to change the channel. (Except that in a perfect universe we’d be in the eighth season of “Buffy” right now, and it would be better than season seven.)

I have to confess that although I’ve been watching “Smallville” almost since the beginning, I don’t think it’s a very good show. There’s just something… off about it. The acting sucks. And Lana and Chloe are annoying (even though I kind of like Chloe). And the show is too much “The Colbys” meets “Dawson’s Creek.” (Does anyone besides me remember “The Colbys”? I used to love that show, at least until Fallon disappeared in a UFO.) There’s too much melodrama and not enough humor — or depth, for that matter. But I’ll keep watching it anyway. It does look like Lex is finally turning into the insane villain we all know and love — and damn, I didn’t realize his body looked so good.

As for “Angel,” I thought the season premiere was delightful. It’s a brand-new show now. It looks like it’s going to be “L.A. Law” meets… well, “Angel,” I guess. I’m sure there are lots of Spike-haters who are incensed that James Marsters has leapfrogged over J. August Richards and Amy Acker in the opening credits to grab second billing for himself, but he must have a great agent. I was pleased to see the words “Written and Directed by Joss Whedon” at the beginning of the episode, and I was pleasantly surprised at the end to see that Joss has become executive producer. He’s gone from having three shows on the fall schedule last year to having just one this year, so I guess he has the time now. I’m glad.

I don’t know how I feel about Gunn’s brain being zapped with all that legal knowledge. Or perhaps I’m just resentful that I had to pay $50,000 to get what he got for free, and I’m not even very good at what I do. Anyway, being trained in the law doesn’t mean that you know facts — it just means that you know where to find the facts, and how to think about them. (That’s why it gets tiresome when people ask me for arcane bits of legal advice. I don’t know any more than you do, OK?)

It sucks that Cordelia, who has been a part of the Buffyverse since Day One, has been unceremoniously dumped. But it was a nice surprise to see Harmony again. And Jonathan Woodward (who plays Fred’s geeky scientist pal and also played the vampire/psychoanalyst in “Conversations With Dead People” on “Buffy” last year) is cute. More him.

I guess we’ll see how this goes.

Meanwhile, there’s “The West Wing.” I don’t really know if I’ll be able to watch three whole hours of TV every Wednesday night, but maybe. It was anticlimactic how the FBI found Zoe — I was expecting this story to go on for at least another two episodes. We still don’t know why Acting President Walken was having secret meetings with the Republican leadership in the Oval Office, but maybe we’ll find out.

Wow. I guess summer’s really over when I’m blogging about TV again.

Last night I went to NYU and saw a documentary about gay youth called “Jim in Bold,” created by a group called Young Gay America. Not only was it free, and not only was there free food, and not only did the room have a great view, and not only were there lots of cute boys in the audience, but it was a really great documentary, too. It interspersed a cross-country road trip in which the Young Gay America guys interviewed gay youth from various towns and cities with the story of Jim Wheeler, an immensely talented gay artist and poet who committed suicide when he was 19. You can read his poem “Jim in Bold” here. The juxtaposition of happy young optimism with sad young despair was enlightening. Gay youth is not all one thing.

After the movie, the three Young Gay America guys who’d conducted the road trip sat at a table at the front of the room and took questions for about 45 minutes. If you’ve ever watched a documentary and then stuck around afterwards for a question-and-answer session, you’re familiar with the strangeness of seeing these two-dimensional faces you’ve been watching for over an hour suddenly appear before you in three dimensions. Oh my god, they’re actually real! And they’re right in front of me! And of course all three of them were hot. And of course two of them used to help run XY. And of course I felt artistic envy that these guys have created projects and have followed through on them.

I want to see my screenplay (which is about gay youth) made into a movie, and now I’m interested in the idea of doing a documentary, too. And I want to keep writing.

Creativity is infectious. I want to be Jeff in Bold.

I highly recommend “American Splendor,” which I saw last night. I was thinking of writing about the parallels between Harvey Pekar’s comic book and the world of blogging, and yet now I see that Harvey Pekar has a blog.

This has been the most social weekend I’ve had in a while — hanging out with friends, making new ones, meeting new people. It’s been a welcome change. And all against a background of invigorating fall weather.

Friday evening after work, before meeting my friends at NYU for the movie, I sat at Au Bon Pain on Fifth Avenue near Union Square, eating a bowl of delicious pumpkin soup near the front window, doing the difficult Friday New York Times crossword puzzle (and completing it!), watching the world walk by. Everyone in their fall jackets, either heading home from work or heading off for their Friday night plans. The beginning of the weekend. There is nothing so optimistic as a fall Friday night with plans.

I’m finally getting used to the fact that it’s October. Part of my brain still thinks it’s August; I have no idea what happened to September. But suddenly it’s chilly, and it’s getting dark earlier than it used to. I like it. It was strange to put on a jacket last week for the first time in months, but then I remembered that my fall jacket makes me feel good.

October is one of my favorite months; the weather is cool enough to give everyone a burst of energy but not so cold that it drains that energy away. Autumn is when everything is new. The arts come back in full force, the Oscar-worthy movies start to appear, new people move to the city, new activities begin. The *click* of the year’s calendar turning that final corner.

I left Au Bon Pain and walked down to NYU, happy with the weather and happy with weekend plans. (Within a matter of hours that day, I’d gone from having no weekend plans to having three different social engagements.) And then, while walking, I ran into a college friend of mine and his girlfriend. We chatted for a while. Then, when I got to the movie, there were more friends than I’d expected.

And then yesterday I got to hang out with two different good guys, I ran into a third, and early in the afternoon I even got a long-needed haircut. I was freshly shorn, I was happy with the way I looked and felt, and I was With Plans.

“Ordinary life is pretty complex stuff,” as Harvey Pekar says. A nice weekend is one of the many things in life worth appreciating.

The one-two punch of the Jewish High Holidays is over: yesterday was Yom Kippur. Rosh Hashannah is the fun holiday — you have to go to services in the morning, but then in the afternoon you get to sit down with your family for a nice meal, and you do this two days in a row. Yom Kippur is the not-fun holiday, because you have to fast and you spend the day in synagogue atoning for the sins of the past year. Sometimes it feels like Judaism revolves around food — the enjoyment of it (Rosh Hashannah), the lack of it (Yom Kippur), or the restriction of it (Passover).

As for me, I still wasn’t feeling well yesterday from my recent illness, so I didn’t go to services at all. Nor did I fast, because according to Jewish law, you don’t have to fast on Yom Kippur if you’re sick, and on top of not feeling well I was still taking antibiotics, so I didn’t fast. I love the fact that Jewish law has loopholes. Gotta love those ancient rabbis. So while the rest of my family went to synagogue, I hung around my parents’ house all day.

I have decided that I have discovered Heaven. Heaven is lying on a couch, covered with a blanket, reading the New Yorker, 10 different HBO channels at your fingertips — and, most crucial of all, a dog nuzzled up against you. (My parents have a German short-haired pointer.)

I think my next big purchase will be either a PDA, an iPod, or a dog.

OK, probably a PDA or an iPod, but the dog is coming at some point down the line.

Now if I could somehow combine the three of them…

Salon.com today has an interview with Rufus Wainwright. Mmmm… Rufus Wainwright. I still need his new album.

So I guess this means that next September, Governor Schwarzenegger of California will be speaking at the Republican National Convention in Madison Square Garden, New York City — in a choice prime-time slot, of course — to endorse George W. Bush for president of the United States.

Oh, joy.
—–

Out of curiosity, I typed etymology of schwarzenegger into Google and was led here. (God, I love the Web.) Looks like Dr. Weevil made the same assumption I made — I’d assumed that schwarzenegger redundantly meant “black black.” But apparently, as someone points out in Dr. Weevil’s comments, it’s not schwarze/negger but schwarzen/egger, or “black plowman.”

Just one of the little bits of bizarredom you’ll find linked here at the Tin Man.

In other news — well, okay, in the same news — it’s just surreal to see the word “Schwarzenegger” in a Washington Post front page banner headline.
—–

Last night’s “Angel” was all about control. Spike yearns to have a body, a corporeal entity (although I didn’t know ghosts could ride in cars and lean on doorframes); Angel, Spike, and the necromancer have this three-way battle over who will control whose body; and meanwhile, Angel and his pals are being controlled by who-knows-what. Who are the senior partners of Wolfram & Hart? Why was it decided that Spike must stay in Los Angeles? Did Angel thwart fate by giving Spike the amulet, or was it meant for Spike all along? They’re all being tossed about by forces they can’t control.

It’s interesting that Spike complained about not being able to affect anything, while he actually played a crucial role in defeating the necromancer. It’s not all about physical power.

I got a little sad when they showed the clip of the “Buffy” series finale (but what happened to Buffy’s “I love you” and Spike’s “No you don’t, but thanks for saying it”?), and I got a little sad again when Angel referred to Buffy being in Europe. It made me miss the Scoobies. I really hope Willow or Xander or Giles or even Dawn or Andrew make some guest appearances in L.A. this year. I’d love to see Giles and Wesley interact again, I’d love to see Willow flirt with Fred, and I’d just generally love to see Andrew. I hope they come back.

As I said last week, I’m sure there are people who will resent Spike’s practically taking over “Angel.” Why bother calling it “Angel” anymore? Why not just call it “Spike”? But it’s still going to be Angel’s show. Angel’s always been the straight man surrounded by weirdos, kind of like Bob Newhart on “Newhart” (his 80s show with the Vermont inn). Perhaps Spike will be another quirky character thrown into the mix. I love the idea of Spike haunting Angel; Angel just wants to brood and yet he’s got this cocky British ensouled vampire ghost yammering and complaining at him. Doesn’t this sound like a great idea for a sitcom?

Anyway, the plot was a little confusing; I don’t like it when main characters withhold their crafty plans from the audience. And I’m still not sure how Angel & Co. are supposed to use Wolfram & Hart’s resources in some judo maneuver to use evil to defeat evil, or even if they’re going to be allowed to do so, or if the senior partners have something else in mind. I’ve missed about two and a half seasons of “Angel,” but it seems that one of the themes of the show has always been that there are these mysterious forces out there that control us without telling us what their plans are. It’s all sinister and spooky and unsettling and confusing and I’m curious to see where it all goes.

“While we’re on the subject, there is one problem facing the Schwarzenegger administration that might be beyond solving: The man’s name won’t fit in newspaper headlines. At 14 letters, it far exceeds the limits of the standard one-column headline…”

— from an editorial in today’s Washington Post.
—–

I received a postcard in the mail today. It’s a promotional card from the state of Pennsylvania, trying to drum up tourism. It’s clearly geared toward New Yorky types, because on the front, superimposed over a picture of an Amish man driving a buggy, it says:

“Like you, the locals won’t be seen wearing anything but black.”

Hahaha. I get it. See, it’s funny because, like, we New Yorkers always wear black, right?

I wonder how much idiocy it takes to try to appeal to a certain group of people by invoking that group’s stereotypes.

How about, “Hey, Jews! Come get away to Hawaii! Becase we know your mom is driving you crazy.”

“Hey there, WASPs! Try our delicious milk! It’s 100 percent pure and white, just like your country club.”

And then there’s the Olive Garden commercials, of course.

Once again, on cue, the New York Times prints something relevant to me. I’ve been thinking/wavering about buying a PDA, and yet today’s paper has an article about gadget-buyers’ remorse. This is just about enough to tip me away from spending my money on something I probably won’t use that much. Or, if anything, maybe I’ll get a cheap monochrome model. The article kind of reminds me of the futile pursuit of happiness, too.
—–

Yesterday I posted a message on an Internet bulletin board that I’ve occasionally visited in the last few years. I wrote about various problems in my life lately — particularly my job and my annoying medical issue. My profile on that site contains a link to my blog. Someone wrote an emphathetic reply to my post, and he ended by asking if he could e-mail me something privately. I said sure. So here’s what he sent me, followed by my response.

Here are downloads of “Buffy” Season 7 score music (via Slayage). I like it more than I’d remembered… although parts of it still sound a bit too much like “Lord of the Rings.” I feel like I should be fighting orcs or hiking through Moria.
—–

It’s the top of the 9th inning as I write. The game is tied, 5-5, Yankees vs. Red Sox. Peter and I have just made a bet. Winner guest-blogs for the loser. (I’m rooting for the Yankees, he’s rooting for the Red Sox.)

C’mon, Yankees!

Since I won the bet (yay! see previous entry), I’ve guest-blogged for Peter today.

I finally saw “Avenue Q” this afternoon. This show was at the top of my list, because it seemed like everyone I knew had already seen it, and I’d heard it was hysterical.

I loved it.

I grew up watching “Sesame Street.” Okay, lots of people my age grew up watching “Sesame Street,” but I really grew up watching it. When I was a toddler, I’d watch it three times a day. It was my favorite show. My mom took me to see Sesame Street Live when I was little, and when the show ended and all the characters waved goodbye, I cried.

Anyway, “Avenue Q” was terrific. It was basically the id of “Sesame Street.” Trekkie Monster is what we all thought Oscar the Grouch was supposed to be: we always knew that Oscar’s messiness was just a synecdoche for being a bad, misbehaving, slovenly boy. (Holy crap. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever used “synecdoche” in a sentence.) Rod and Nicky are what we always knew was going on with Ernie and Bert (okay, when we were little kids we didn’t know, but we learned it as we grew older). And Lucy the Slut is clearly Miss Piggy.

The two key phrases of the show that are resonating most in my head right now are “for now” and “for porn.” “For now” — this too shall pass. The bad things shall pass, the good things shall pass. Rather Zen, eh? It all passes. “For porn” — we all have slutty thoughts, and that’s OK. There’s that id again.

For now. For porn.

“Avenue Q,” like “tick, tick… Boom!,” made me think about one’s 20s — a time when you’re supposed to have fun, and a time when your dreams buck up against reality. One song, “I Wish I Could Go Back to College,” actually brought tears to my eyes. And more than the latter show, “Avenue Q” made me ponder my identity as a part of this group.

As of today, there are 70 days until my 30th birthday. Did I ever really have that quintessential 20something “Avenue Q” experience? Has anyone had it, or is it just something that we romanticize and see in the media? I was in law school in a small-city academic setting until I was 25. My New- York-City-focused life, that eptiome of Gen-X-ness, didn’t really begin until I was 26. And suddenly, soon, I will no longer be 29. I started late and now it’s almost over.

Bah. It’s not almost over.

These days, the 30s aren’t much different from the 20s — especially when you’re gay, I think. A few weeks ago I was talking to a friend of mine at work who’s in his late 40s, and when I told him I was almost 30, he got excited for me. He told me that the 30s are a great decade — you still have your health, but you know more than you did in your 20s. He told me I have so much to look forward to. It made me feel great.

At any rate, the nice thing about seeing a Broadway show is that after you’ve left the theater you can buy the cast album, like I did, and then listen to it over and over, which I’m about to do.

Everything in life is only for now.

I’ve got the theater bug again.

After seeing “Avenue Q” on Saturday (see previous entry), I saw “Take Me Out” yesterday afternoon, finally. Great play, if a bit long, and Denis O’Hare is… just… absolutely… priceless. I almost bought the script afterwards just for his baseball monologue.

Why the hell don’t I go to the theater more often? This is goddamn New York, and I love the theater. Whenever I see a Broadway show, I feel like I’m back in high school. This weekend I felt like a giddy excited teenager again, a closeted gay teenage theater lover. It just makes me feel so good. I used to come home from college during vacations, take a quick bus ride from the New Jersey suburbs into Manhattan, and get myself a ticket to a matinee. I remember how nervous I felt when I was 18 and went to see “Falsettos,” which I’d been dying to see, and then had to explain to my parents afterward that I’d only seen it because I’d heard it was good.

I miss acting — it was my main activity in high school. I used to dream of being a professional actor. (I wasn’t that great — I was a ham — but I loved doing it.) I cut short my acting career toward the end of my first year of college, when I tried moving on from UVa’s First Year Players to the collegewide productions and didn’t get called back for anything. (Too bad — maybe I would have had a chance to work with Tina Fey, who was a fourth-year UVa drama major at the time.) I gave up on acting, and my main extracurricular activity became singing.

After my great weekend of theater, I’ve made a promise to myself. From now on, I’m going to try to see at least two shows a month. I’m particularly going to try to see all the big Broadway musicals and plays. I haven’t seen most of what’s currently out there, and that’s just dumb.

And maybe I’ll try my hand at playwriting again.

Incidentally, I bought two more of these yesterday, because I had a bunch of stray Playbills piled up. I’ve now got six of those binders, and my collection’s nicely organized chronologically by show, from “Peter Pan” and “Annie” (my first shows, late 70s/early 80s) to “Take Me Out.”

I guess I shoudn’t be afraid of my inner theater queen. I should embrace it.

I don’t know if I can accept this. I really don’t.

I looked at the front page of the New York Times this morning, and the headline fonts looked weird. I thought perhaps there’d been a printing error or something.

But no.

The New York Times has gotten a typographical facelift.

If you click on the box to the right of the article beneath “Multimedia,” you can see what the changes look like.

The New York Times has used the same fonts for my entire life, and now they’re changing? Without warning? And even the paper’s famous banner headlines are going to look different?

“Before today’s change,” the article states, “at least six headline typefaces commonly appeared on the front page. That kind of variety was customary for newspapers in the early 20th century, possibly because metal type was too costly and scarce for printers to stock full ranges of size within a family.”

So what? This was a problem? I thought it was always kind of nice and quaint. Now they have to change it?

The new font, Cheltenham, is actually rather elegant. It’s just that I feel like I’m reading the Wall Street Journal or the International Herald Tribune or something. It doesn’t look like the Times.

Oh, I’ll get used to it, just like we eventually get used to everything new. And then one day I’ll see an old copy of the paper, and I’ll think, “Wow, that looks weird.”

When they started printing the paper in color, I liked it. I don’t know if I’m going to like this, though.

Sigh. I’m too young to be a curmudgeon.

Tonight I had my first performance as a member of the Gay Gotham Chorus.

It wasn’t exactly singing, though. We performed this avant-garde piece of music that involved wearing headsets attached to Discmans, and we had to follow the instructions we heard on our discs, most of which consisted of repeating certain lines or phrases. The text of the piece was a transcript of a portion of the McCarthy hearings from the 1950s. There was also weird eerie taped background music. We performed the piece at a venue in Greenwich Village.

And, surprisingly to me, the room was packed.

I felt so New Yorkish, doing this weird avant-garde piece in Greenwich Village. As part of a gay men’s chorus, even.

In other news, I got a new toy yesterday. Hooray! I can finally print things — particularly, lately, crossword puzzles, such as these triple stacks. But presumably other things as well. Anyway, given various discounts, I’m getting it for under $100, which made the purchase even more worthwhile.

Also, tonight I went to the Strand and bought two books: Pafko at the Wall, by Don DeLillo, which was originally published as the prologue to his novel Underworld, and which I’m slightly in the mood for, because it’s World Series season and I just saw “Take Me Out”; and Not Since Carrie, which I bought because I know that Mike has raved about it and because I’ve been in a theater mood lately. (Plus I’m one of the few people who actually saw “Carrie.”) Total for two books, both in hardcover, plus tax: 13 bucks. I love the Strand.

In more news, tomorrow morning I’m going away to Providence, Rhode Island for the weekend. It should be lots of fun.

I’ll write when I get back!

I rode the bus home from Providence on Saturday night, a day earlier than planned. There were only seven or eight passengers, each of us alone, with at least one row separating each of us and nobody sitting across the aisle from anyone else. We each had our own private bubble. We rode through the darkness along I-95 and it was like being in my own chauffered vehicle. It was wonderful. I ate a sub I’d bought beforehand, then I did a few crossword puzzles, and then, in the darkness, I listened to the last game of the World Series on my Walkman. It was the first time I’d ever listened to a sporting event on the radio and understood what was going on. I felt like

Mason Marzak in “Take Me Out.”

My experience in Providence was not quite what I’d expected. I went there to meet a guy I’d been chatting/talking with for the past two months; we met online in mid-August and had talked on the phone several times since then, and he’d invited me up to Providence to be his date at a dinner on Friday night, sponsored by his former workplace. He used to work at a Franciscan church, so there were several robed friars mingling with the rest of us in our suits and dresses during the cocktail hour. It was a bit surreal.

He was a nice guy, but I didn’t really feel like we clicked. I also met some of his friends, which was a little strange, considering that I’d just met him, too, really. And other than the Friday night dinner, we didn’t have any specific plans, so we kind of wandered around Providence and its outskirts aimlessly. On top of that, I wasn’t feeling all that well, and I was feeling introverted and moody, and I was dreading going back to work on Monday and felt like I wanted a day at home to relax. So I took an 8:00 bus home on Saturday night. He understood completely. We’ll probably stay in touch anyway.

This is all okay, really, because in the last few weeks I’ve gone out on a few dates with a certain someone, and I’ve been having a nice time with him.

In other news, my bank is being bought by Bank of America.

OK. This is too weird. When I was at school in Virginia, my bank was NationsBank. Then NationsBank bought Bank of America and took that name, so my bank became Bank of America. Then I moved back up to New Jersey, and in 2000 I joined Summit Bank. Less than a year later, Summit got bought by Fleet. And now Fleet has been bought by Bank of America. So I’m going back to Bank of America. It’s like I’m caught in this huge banking vortex and I can’t escape. A friend of mine in the banking industry says that someday there’s just going to be Bank of Earth and that’s going to be the end of it.

Incidentally, this site lets you look up any bank, current or defunct, and see what has happened to it. Kinda cool (though it seems to be having some trouble right now).
—–

I saw a psychiatrist last Thursday.

I’ve suspected for a while that I might have a chemical imbalance. I’m Mr. Anxiety. Despite years of talk therapy, despite numerous changes in my life situation, this anxiety has never completely gone away. And lately, between my prostate issues and my job, I’ve felt so despairing inside. I’ve felt like the rest of my existence is going to be pointless. For a couple of weeks last spring I talked to my therapist about seeing a psychiatrist, someone who could actually prescribe medication, but then I felt better again. This time, though, I’d just had enough of feeling like this.

So I finally saw a psychiatrist on Thursday.

I talked with him for an hour and a half, and at the end of our talk, he concluded that I mostly have anxiety, with a little bit of depression thrown in. This was not a surprise.

He’s prescribed me Wellbutrin, which I began taking on Sunday morning. He said it might make me jittery, though, because Wellbutrin is “activating.” Finding the right medication is trial and error, although I don’t quite understand why I need something “activating” if my main problem is anxiety. And I’ve been feeling more anxious than usual these last couple of days, but I don’t know whether it’s the Wellbutrin, or whether it’s situational, or whether it’s psychosomatic. Psychosomatic anxiety? Isn’t that redundant? Like, the anxiety is all in my mind? Um, duh?

The anxiety could be situational. I had a follow-up appointment yesterday morning with the urologist, who I swear to God looks and sounds just like Jerry Springer, and apparently my prostate is fine again. Which is problematic, because I’m still having symptoms. He says it could be psychosomatic. Oh, wonderful. Now what am I supposed to do.

He also reminded me to ejaculate no more than three or four times a week. (Yeah — no more than. I’d thought it was at least.) For how long, I said? Forever, he basically said. Too much is not good for the prostate. So for the rest of my life it’s not good for me to ejaculate on consecutive days? I’ve never heard anything like this before. “You’ve never talked to a urologist before,” he said. But really? Seriously? No more than three or four times a week? Are you kidding me? I have to regulate my sex life now? Even when I’m alone? I swear I’ve never heard this before. I don’t know if I buy it.

Then, this morning, I was sitting in a meeting, prepping for a hearing tomorrow, and I had no idea what was going on. And whenever I tried to focus, my mind would wander. I’d try to concentrate, and then I’d start to think about why I couldn’t concentrate, and then I’d start to think about why my mind works the way it does, all of which of course prevented me from concentrating, which started the cycle over again. But this is all normal for me. And in my two years in this job I’ve never known what the hell was going on. Anyway, I was sitting in this room and I was feeling urinary pressure and I was feeling completely clueless and useless and anxious and I just needed to get the hell out of there.

I was talking to the urologist yesterday morning about the other issues going on in my life, my worries about turning 30 and whatnot, and he told me that he’d recently read that most people in their 80s found that their 70s had been their best decade — because they’ve accomplished what they want, and now they can just relax. Well, if I have to deal with all of this every day for the next four decades of my life, I’m never going to make it to 70.

I feel like a total basket case right now.

But I need to write these words anyway, because they are my truth.

In regard to yesterday’s post, in which I wrote that my urologist said that too much ejaculation is bad for the prostate — something of which I have found absolutely no evidence online — a reader, who, after extensive research, also found nothing online, writes:

“In ways, there is some twisted humor in this. Suppose…

“After having Friday night sex, you both want to repeat in the morning. What do you do? If you already had your three ejaculations that week, can you borrow against next week’s quota? If that was your second ejaculation and you’re dating another guy on Saturday night, do you tell Mr. Friday Night you can’t because you want to save a potential ejaculation for the new guy? What if you don’t ejaculate for a week? Can you bank those for the future? That gives new meaning to ‘sperm bank.’

“Have you seen the ‘Seinfeld’ episode in which Elaine has to determine if her boyfriends are ‘sponge-worthy’ when she runs low on her contraceptive sponges? With your thrice a week maximum, will you now have to determine if a guy is ejaculation-worthy? Will you also have to decide what’s worth more: a sure thing jerk-off or a possible sexual interaction? How’s that proverb go… a cock in the hand now is worth two guys going down on your bush later?”

I’ve wondered similar things. Like, what if I get horny and it’s not my ejaculation day? Am I supposed to get blueballs? And should I refrain from masturbating the night before a date? This all makes no sense, and I think my urologist is speaking out of his ass.

As it were.

The song “Purpose” is one of my favorite tracks on the “Avenue Q” cast album. (And I have lots of favorites on that album.) It’s something about the combination of the upbeat lyrics, the energetic, peppy band, the mental image of the happy, dancing cardboard boxes, and, most of all, the youthful, innocent, and optimistic spirit with which John Tartaglia sings. The way he sings that song is just infectious — the whole thing really gets to me. It makes me happy and sad at the same time, which is weird, but it’s because I’m both hopeful and pessimistic about my own life right now. In fact, I listened to the song just now and tears started dripping from my eyes. The song creates a complicated emotional reaction in me.

If you haven’t seen the show (and I’m sure most of you haven’t), it might be hard to figure out what I mean, but you can listen to a short clip of the song here.

“Purpose”

(as transcribed by me, since I don’t have the CD booklet in front of me)

Bah-bah-bah-bahhhhh

Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo

I don’t know how I know

But I’m gonna find my purpose

I don’t know where I’m gonna look

But I’m gonna find my purpose

Gotta find out

Don’t wanna wait

Got to make sure that my life will be great!

Gotta find my purpose…

Before it’s too late.

He’s gonna find his purpose

Whoa, whoaaaaaaa, I’m gonna find my purpose

He’s gonna find his purpose

Yeaaaaaah, yeah, yeaaaaah, I’m gonna find my purpose

Could be far

Could be near

Could take a week, a month, a year

At a job

Or smokin’ grass

Maybe at a pottery class

Could it be

Yes it could

Somethin’s comin’, somethin’ gooooooooooood…

I’m gonna find my purpose

You’re gonna find your purpose

I’m gonna find it…

What will it be

Where will it be

My purpose in life is a mystery

Gotta find my purpose

Gotta find me!

You’re gonna find your purpose

Whoa, whoaaaaaaa, I’m gonna find my purpose

You’re gonna find your purpose

Purpose, purpose, purpose, yeaaaaaah, yeah!

I gotta find me.

As much as the PATH train drives me nuts, it’s exciting that the station at the World Trade Center site will be reopening in just over three weeks — a temporary station, anyway. “Temporary” means three to six years, until the permanent station designed by Santiago Calatrava is completed. Who knows what my life will be like at that point, or where I’ll be living.

For now, at least, it will be nice to have an alternative once again to the crowded Sixth Avenue PATH line. Getting to lower Manhattan or to Brooklyn will be much easier (I haven’t been to Brooklyn in a few months, but it will be nice to have a shorter trip anyway), and if I’m going home from a bar late on a Friday or Saturday night, I won’t have to deal with hordes of drunken ex-frat boys going home to Hoboken if I don’t want to (though I’d have to hop on the subway and get down to lower Manhattan first). It will all make getting into Manhattan from the sixth borough a little more bearable.

And since I can’t figure out how to work the following links into the previous two paragraphs, I’ll just present them separately:

Rebuilding Lower Manhattan

Lower Manhattan Development Corporation

Enjoy.
—–