but since i've been responding to comments here I guess I'll say it again. I don't livejournal anymore, but if you're desperate for my thoughts, they are usually over at Logopolis.
In 1978, the Japanese made a live-action Spiderman television series. Here are it's opening credits. Apparently, Spiderman will universally inspire a rockin' theme song. However, if the credits are any indication, Su-pa-i-da-ma-n does have some notable differences from its American counterpart:
1) Rather than a spider bite, Parker-san gets his powers from a gaudy bracelet. You'd think the Godzilla-loving Japanese would never miss an opportunity to have a character affected by radiation - but perhaps they're a little more sensitive about the "radiation poison = superpowers" disconnect. 2) I believe even the Japanese version of Pride and Prejudice would have a giant robot in it somewhere (did somebody say Mecha Darcy!); Spidey is no exception -- he's apparently got a huge Voltron-like buddy that can show up to save the day in case his webslingers get clogged.
CSN: what is all this business about sharon osborne having a stroke - i mean, it made the cover of the economist. is it really that surprising? all those drugs with ozzie.... Me: glad to hear you're staying on top of the news again CSN: just what i get at the top of my gmail and while glancing at the magazines while playing with luke's lightsaber in line at border's Me: check out logopolis every once and a while and you'll be all set CSN: i'm not sure i trust the source on that one Me: paying glancing attention to the news? distrustful of media sources? fuck dude, you're ready for the blogosphere prime time
Michael Vale, the character actor who starred in more than 100 Dunkin' Donuts commercials as the early-rising "Fred the baker" and joked that he got paid in doughnuts, has died. He was 83.
Mine seemed to have extra sprinkles today. I thought it was because they were trying to get rid of the leftover red and green post-Xmas. Perhaps it was a tribute.
See his offensive-to-some, hilarious-to-me-when-I-was-ten comedic work in action here. For years, within the young McNamara clan, the universal symbol for dressing up as a woman was to hold your finger over your lip, even if you were even less likely to have facial hair then than you are now (which is still not likely)
creativity: I'm tired of people thinking that something is creative because its "new" or "different" -- some of the most creative work is done remixing what's already out there.
film: Given the great opportunities this city has to offer, I sadly take advantage of a limited number of them.
gay: See "film" above.
guys: The messy spiked hair programmer who just walked by is so fucking hot and I just love the way he dresses and the way he holds his coffee cup.
purple line: I miss Evanston but not the people there.
rufus wainwright: I really liked him for a time, and still recognize his talents, but his music is so associated with a certain time -- a time I don't want to go back to - that I really can't listen to it much anymore.
sports: I hate the "gay sports movement" because they think that they are somehow superior to not sports liking gays. I like sports but I also like taking it up the ass. So deal with your masculinity issues off the field, motherfucker.
strangers with candy: Boy have they buried the release of this movie...was it really that bad?
veritgo: Sometimes I see boys who look like boys I've loved too. If I ever lost love and repressed my feelings, I bet I'd start playing dress up with those boys too.
Enter your LJ user name, and 10 interests will be selected from your interest list.
Franz
Ferdinand. Tonight. Aragon. 7:00 pm. (Given that Beck is almost
next door at the Riv, if
hipster-rocker-could-get-beaten-up-by-their-girlfriends boys are your
thing, get thy ass to the corner of Lawrence and Broadway pronto for
some serious eye candy)
Bringing me to a point I saved as draft a couple of months ago...
I
hate artists talking about their art. It just doesn't work. Whether
it be meta-blog criticism or an open mic artist who prefaces with "I
wrote this about...", even the clearest of communicators sound like
tools when speaking of their own genius or "genius" for that matter.
And nothing ruins my enjoyment of a good performance like a post-show
discussion with the director or choreographer.
So I should have known better than to read, on the Franz Ferdinand website. an explanation for the lyrics for "Michael"
their
rocking tribute to boy-on-boy nightclub nastiness that happens to share
a name with me. A sampling of the lyrics for those unfamiliar:
Michael, you're the boy with all the leather hips
Sticky hair, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips
Michael, you're the only one I'd ever want
Only one I'd ever want, only one I'd ever want
Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor
Michael, you're dancing like a beautiful dance whore
Michael waiting on a silver platter now
And nothing matters now
Now I can't find the quote from their website after the recent
redesign, but when explaining the songs meaning, lead signer Alex took
the weak-ass approach to such questions, giving some "universal appeal,
non-gender specific" style answer. Yeah, "stubble on my sticky lips"
really screams androgyny to me too.
Of course, they were a ton pop-rock-star gayer (meaning ambiguous), when asked that question by a UK gay magazine as this Village Voice
article points out. And I'm certainly not angered about them
de-gayifying a song if they want and either way, it means nothing to me
-- I think you can totally write about dudes fucking without having
actually penetrated one -- it's just I thought that the quote from the
site was so stupid, I wish I hadn't found it at all.
However, I did discover, in that same journey, that the feedback
noise playing backwards is "Call your mother, she's worried about you"
reversed which sort of adds a whole new weird, wonderful layer to it
(especially given that the only one who calls me Michael is my mother)
So, tonight, I will go see the boys from Glasgow as they open their
US tour in Chicago -- with my leather hips, sticky lips, sticky hair,
and all. And if they don't play "Michael", a whole lot more than World
War I will break out at the Aragon.
World War III has broken out.
And
Scotland has won. Oh baby, have they.
Note
the use of “Oh baby” in the last paragraph. Note how that doesn’t
sound like me. Note how my brain has been rocked. And my soul.
Not
to mention my ass.
First
off, let me say that the opening, opening act Cut Copy was my favorite opener
whom I hadn’t heard before – New Order with better beats and an occasional
familiar sound that may or may not have been Michael Hutchence (but given that
CC is from Melbourne, that just might have been an Austrailian thing); the
crowd at this point was non-existant and those that were standing
cooler-than-thou. How they couldn’t be
moved to move is the tragic consequence of being a music pose posueur.
So
I was even happier when Pretty Girls Make Graves
rose to the higher-on-the-bill
challenge. I’d blanked on their names
when asked by Joe Fratboy in front of me (“Pretty something Corpses,
maybe?”)
but it was soon apparent that I’d have to be hunting down their stuff
too. Best song involved a rocking accordion. Trust me.
I
almost was feeling that I’d gotten my ticket’s worth already – until I
remembered what I’d spent. It seemed to
take forever for the changeover. The
crowd – now filling up the Aragon --
where I’d never been for a concert, only Fireball a couple years back – was
getting on my nerves. But finally, the
pre-show music quit, lights dimmed, purple and blue flashed above the stage.
And
the god damn Doctor Who theme music
played.
And,
if I’m not mistaken, the 80s synth best-of-all-the-themes version.
It only got better from there.
Seriously,
the quote titling yesterday’s post “"15 pounds of fuck-puppy in a 10-pound
bag" – lifted from the Village Voice article for those
that didn’t click through – and a phrase I hope to start using with some
regularity – was not only accurate, it might have been short about 5 pounds of
fuck-puppy. It’s not just that
the boys rock so hard they might make even a straight swoon a tad gay, they made
me even gayer – not, my friends, an easy feat.
With Chris Steele in character in Cops Gone Bad (also NSFW) talking dirty in my ear.
In
a K hole.
Seriously,
it felt that good.
So
good that when they left the stage (after a short 45 minute set – but
seriously, kids they have one album and one on the way, what do you expect?), I
was disappointed but not crushed that they hadn’t performed “Michael” or “This
Fire” – figuring the latter to be the encore. That was going to be my explanation to those not present just how great
it was – I wasn’t even bummed that they didn’t play the song I’d wanted most.
And then, out
they come for the encore. And it’s “Michael” sung of course, directly
to me. Or the kid behind me who kept
grabbing my ass when the crowd would push me back. Our general
direction, at least. (followed by another new song and “This Fire.”)
Obviously, I'm an official worthless drooling fanboy right
now. For more measured criticism of last night, check out Rolling Stone or Metromix. Or the shout out to the crowd on craigslist. Or the poor bi curious guy who went to the concert but was home horny after his girlfriend left him high and dry. We all seemed to have a good time.
So I was pretty bummed that I learned that Sean Michael
Spears Federline had been ripped out of Britney's tummy for hours before I learned
about it. Yes, I lead a charmingly chaotic (get it?) life and sometimes
find myself away from RSS feeds or even an internet connection for more than,
say, 30 minutes at a time, but the birth of the future king of WTRP* is something that I should have
known as soon as the doctor cut the cord (at which point, nurses hopefully let the poor guy suckle
on a bottle of Red Bull so he didn’t go into shock from the sudden lack of
taurine)
*- White trash rap pop aka hip-cracker-pop-hop -- a musical genre he was bred to
create, making it even sadder that his original Us Weekly reported name --
Preston Michael Spears Federline was incorrect – as the world will never hear
an album by Baby K-PMS Fresh.
Best! Banner! Ever! courtesy of britneyspy.com, obviously.
So in the following days, as Britney adjusted to
motherhood by puréeing Cheetos and K-Fed adjusted to fatherhood by not
leaving
this time (maybe he's truly in love with Britney and wants to be a good
baby daddy, but methinks he's just too lazy to pack up all his do-rags
and trucker hats so soon), I was determined to make sure I never was in
the dark again. And, like Kori and Kaleb Federline, the concern was
soon forgotten.
But I remembered the pain of my ignorance when I came across Celebrity
Deathbeeper. I signed up figuring if I couldn’t catch them in the
afterbirth, I’d get them as they went to the afterlife. And write a quiet yet moving, kind
obituary. Because I can do kind, really
I can…
I
questioned whether such a service is tacky or not, but. as I do on most
ethical issues, especially those involving America's insatiable hunger
for fame, settled on indifference . Then today the Treo beeped my first
deathpage, which I'm reading as an answer
from the Gay Jesus that, no matter what horrors may also exist in the
world, I
should continue being just as unseemly and titty-flashing as always, if
only
because somebody has to pick up the slack for New Orleans:
FAMED HOLOCAUST SURVIVOR SIMON WIESENTHAL DIES
Logopolis returns for a new fall season – starting NOW!
(All the good blogs take time off in the summer, just like
TV used to do. What? The blogs you read don’t do this? Hmmm, says more about your taste than my
productivity. I’m just saying…)
"I Will Follow You Into The Dark" - Death Cab for Cutie
]
So the punk boy who disappeared a few months ago has been in prison.
You know someone is a fuck-up -- albeit a sweet, hot fuck-up, when you
are actually relieved that prison is why they disappeared from your
life.
He's an interesting one and now that he's in rehab, I'd like to be a
good influence on him. I mean, have all kinds of nasty fun with him,
but still be a good influence.
In that way that I imagine I could be.
If I'd ever meet a boy who was interested in being good and bad
simultaneously.
I just tend to get them when they are self-destructing.
A path I can, unfortunately, also be quite helpful with.
And here I am "writing in character" -- what I say here is Mike
but it also Mike the Journal Writer, a man who is me but not.
Write write write. This is going to be a wacked weekend. I can tell.
Also, I really think I should have sex before midnight (when I
can start writing according to contest rules) because horned up like
I'm 15 and in the locker room of military school, and that's really not
going to be conducive to productive creativity. Unless you define
productive creativity as getting online to score - which is an art in
and of itself.-- and not the fun I'm looking for. (Yes, peanut
gallery, for a change...)
“But I’ve been here for a couple of days now, and if God gave me this particular piece of land, I’d be wondering what I’d done to offend God. I mean, frankly, Jon, I’m standing by the nice rubble, um, the stuff they take out when company’s coming over. My guess is someone gave the land to God, God saw it and in his infinite wisdom he regifted it.”
You know what would be awesome -- not as awesome as curing AIDS, I'll admit but still, pretty awesome? If I volunteered to be a test subject for this research and though it did work as intended, it had the unexpected side effect of turning me into a mighty half-human, half-croc super hero. That would rock. Croc rock, if you will.
I'm not sure what my powers other than a more powerful immune system might be. But I'm thinking I wouldn't be sucking much dick once the fellas started thinking about the 2000 pounds of force behind a crocodile's jaws.
...that I took Japanese in high school and college. This hi-tech toilet is probably amusing to all - but HILARIOUS to me...if only because I'm imagining the buttons being read by my Japanese teacher from high school -- a poor woman who was an anesthesiologist in Japan before her husband got transferred to the Chicago suburbs where she couldn't find work in a hospital because her English was so bad.
Guess what -- she probably shouldn't have been teaching smart ass high school "gifted" kids a foreign language either. But as far as walking flighty female Asian stereotypes from the eighties go, she was smack dab in the middle between Pink Lady and Mac's wife Kwan Lee from Night Court, and she provided countless tales of amusement.
Also, she couldn't say "squirrel" and we'd always try to create situations where she'd have to say it. God, we were bastards.
Well, let's see, I returned to Chicago to live with this boy mentioned here who did, in fact, become as important to my life as he felt he might that day. And then old habits did not die hard, and, somehow magically, I managed to live the "no job, party all the time" lifestyle I'd always mocked and lived to tell about it. In fact, I'm incredibly healthy compared to where I had been. And lots of p0rn quality sex along the way. But yeah, I'm lucky. Kids don't try these tricks at home. I'm like gay version of MTV's Jackass. Okay, a GAYER version.
So when new job prospects seemed to dry up, I decided to move to California to become a Desperate Houseboy (yes, I'm sure this video will exist soon) but then at the last minute (on Election Night actually - 3 days before I was supposed to fly out - it's complicated) that fell through, so I was stuck homeless (because aforementioned boy didn't have my back like I thought he did...well that's complicated too) but managed to finagle my way into a sweet new apartment in Ravenswood.
And as I stood in my new kitchen, having just signed a lease - the first place I've ever lived by myself - having deposited every last cent I had, my cell phone rang offering me an interview for a new job downtown - same salary, 15 minutes by train, potential NYC travel, and sweet gig for a few months. And sure enough, I got it.
So that started last Monday, everything else is sorting itself out, and I feel like I'm going to start writing again.
Woke up early today to take my dad to school so I wouldn't be stranded at home all day vehicle-less. Of course, I decided to do this forgetting that my father doesn't work in the building he's worked my entire life, but instead, this fall is teaching at a school in the middle of a cornfield 15 miles away (as opposed to the school on the edge of town -- which also places it on the edge of a cornfield)
The school district of my youth finally consolidated with another district in our county. When I graduated (over 10 years ago -- yikes), the high school had 113 kids; my graduation class had 20. And it's been shrinking. So the town finally gave in and voted to mix it up with the other large school in Warren County -- known, rather uncreatively, as Warren.
One of the major sticking points preventing this consolidation from happening years ago were the athletic programs. Football is important here. Like Varsity Blues important but without the billboards, hot fake Texas accents, and Scott Caan's sweet, sweet little muscle ass. Alexis -- my hometown -- prided itself on being a little shit town that could still muster a competitive football team; most of this is based in the past -- having placed 2nd in state in 1974 (the year I was born) -- though we managed to get in the quarterfinals as late as when I played. People were actually afraid that our grand football tradition would be sullied if we mixed with another school. It was only when the numbers dwindled so low that we couldn't actually field a team that the consolidation vote passed. Now the Alexis Cardinals and Warren Warriors have combined to be the United Red Storm (Sidenote: at what point in the mid-nineties did mascot names officially start to suck ass?)
At the first game this fall, the captains who'd been elected the previous year (before the consolidation took place) from Alexis and Warren met midfield -- each wearing jerseys of their respective school. Each captain removed the jersey of the other -- revealing the new team jersey underneath. Then the old jerseys were stomped into the ground by all involved. Homoerotic! Ritualistic! Fantastic!
(Sadly, I missed this event -- though I did see the second game -- which was an equally bizarre evening, though just on the personal level. How come people who made my life somewhat less than bearable for two to six years of my formative years think we are suddenly as adults best friends? Apparently, working the family farm and just barely leaving home by age 30 mean you can move on from high school a lot better that those who have taken off for less pastoral settings.)
The twenty minutes spent in the car with my father provided more conversation than the past 5 days -- which is saying something since we spent most of the weekend here with my mom out of town. He is probably going to retire next year, so this change in his routine has only energized him -- he lets any of the annoying bits roll off his back because he doesn't care. On the ride over, he passed along his wisdom about consolidating school systems (hire all new administrators rather than trying to blend the staffs because teachers from each place will bitch to their old bosses, where they wouldn't be such pains in the ass to new ones) and trucks (he wants to get a new one and found a quad cab he liked at the used car lot that was the right price, but it was white, and he just couldn't own a white truck). Also because he's retiring soon, in the new district he's teaching junior high, after 30 years of high school. He's completely re-doing what he's been teaching forever, running off all new slides about Leonardo diVinci and the Renaissance, trying to expose these kids to art and ideas they will probably never see again. I love my dad. As has always been the case, he's still the first teacher at school.
As I drove home by myself, the dewey autumn morning with the orange sun rising was a reminder of nature's beauty. It also gave me hives. Need city back quickly.
I also remember why all the numb-nut corporate types in the suburbs have their big assmunch SUVs. Driving the truck really makes you feel like your cock is 3 inches longer and twice as thick.
So here I spend Saturday night with my father flipping through the channels way too fast. And he's currently going between Jay & Silent Bob and Kevin Arnold at a funeral; I think he's asleep while doing it.
"I am the Master of the Clit. I make that work!"
"Brian Cooper was the first person who I ever knew who wasn't old who died."
And then I macked with his sister in the woods.
* * * * *
Found these in my baby book:
* * * * *
So to those who might be curious, the party is over. I've abandoned Chicago for a few days...maybe more... to clean up my act. One would think that the knowledge that the next bad boy party fuckaround weekend could actually kill me would stop the desire to do so -- but it didn't. There are ways to deal with this kind of problem -- but I haven't found one that works for me yet. So I'm removed myself from the situation with the hope that a little distance could help me figure out which path to take.
So I surf and chat and write and watch my dad fall asleep in front of the tv, remixing sound bytes in an amusing fashion as he dozes.
"I love making quarterbacks cry. Being one of the guys. A big (something) full of beer. And those twins."
I have not talked about the actual issues that brought me home because my family does not talk about such things. Everyone protects each other from the actual knowledge while still doing their best to protect and love one another. I had every intention of confronting the issues honestly when I arrived home. But my parents just seemed so happy to pick me up at the train station though so worried about my skinniness. And I couldn't deal. Then I had to take my mom to the hospital because she was feeling so awful. She passed 2 kidneystones that she attributed to stress -- which she blamed on my grandmother, who has gotten ill again as she prepares to move from the house she's lived in since she married my grandfather at age 14 (yeah there's a story there). My grandmother has made my mom executor of her will -- which, to me, seems like about the cruelest thing she could do as my mom will be her child least prepared to deal with my grandmother's actual death. But no one asks my opinion on such things
In other words, now, perhaps is not the time to approach my family with the latest batch of their eldest gay son's issues (oh yeah, by the way, they don't know my little brother is also gay...)
However, because of my gauntness and other stuff, both parents and my sister (who has already dropped by a couple of times this visit) seem to have "guessed" what has brought me home. So each of them will constantly ask how I feel or about my sleeping habits or if I've taken my pills or some other annoying question, but only under their breath or in another guarded way to assure no one else hears them. It's almost funny, almost an amusing farce. It's like Moliere and Tony Kushner teamed up to write a very special episode of Three's Company. And I'm Jack Tripper, tripping over the couch and my own words, and, obviously, my own metaphors.
This placement of Saturn indicates that you need a great deal of emotional security. You must believe that you are loved and that you can rely on your home and family as a refuge in times of personal trouble. Basically you are afraid that your family may not be reliable, that they may abandon you when you most need help.
It is especially important for you to know that you will be loved and supported no matter what you do and who you are. Otherwise, with this Saturn position, your deep-rooted insecurity will be expressed as distrust of others and hiding your feelings from everyone. You may pretend that you are unfeeling and have no concern for others, when really you are very much in need of warmth and affection from them. As an adult, you might get to the point of being totally out of touch with your feelings, not understanding your reactions to persons and situations and thus constantly doing violence to your inner self. Your emotional insecurity can also make you feel that you don't belong anywhere or to anyone, that you are isolated and alone in an unfriendly universe. This situation can be prevented only if you get lots of unconditional love while you are young.
On the plus side, with this placement you are able to discipline your feelings and remain in control at times when others are completely at the mercy of their emotions. You know how to feel without losing track of yourself and your objectives, but only if you are basically confident of yourself and of your place in others' lives.
Yes, I did think about using Allen Ginsberg's picture as an icon since "Howl" was the origin of my screenname, but his mug doesn't exactly represent the celebrations I'm trying to explore.
I think the Duck Hunt one is kind of like me...oafishly jumping through life happily idiotic, but always taking time to laugh at people who miss the ducks.
Been thinking a lot about why I write here and who I write it for -- with me posting my first "friends only" post (go ahead make yourself a friend by the way if you're a person who somehow regularly checks in -- emails and comments show that there's a couple at least -- I'm not sure what will prompt me to use the "friends only" -- but I'm sure it will probably always be about me monitoring who reads it -- not necessarily about locking someone out...I'm obviously not that embarassed about much.
That said, I've been meaning to do this for a little while and have now removed my pic from the site. I think, if I do have any mission as I record my adventures, it's to try to get a handle on this crazy world and the subcultures we create -- especially the decadent ones -- and what that does to an individual. So I'm trying to be more open and honest, There's enough identifying details in the entries that anyone who knows me could figure out who I am, and there's some regular readers who actually know me outside the Matrix as well. But really, those aren't the folks I'm trying to keep it from. It's the idea of someone judging me based solely on these words and actions that makes me turn on the self-censor. The logic of this might escape some, but when you live with a crazy brain like mine, you learn to train it by whatever means necessary.
It also feels like a good idea as some of the people I encounter on my adventures tend to live lives one might call "interesting in a criminological sense" so no head shot cuts those acquaintances a little extra slack too if I happen to mention something the DEA might find problematic.
And what's the point of that picture anyway? If you read something based on the attractiveness of the authors, I hope you don't read a lot of novels. I've seen a lot of authors in my time and not a one has lived up to the flattering back cover black and whites.
So with that bit of business out of the way, I thought I'd finally update on guys I've mentioned through the past months..okay I'll do that later...gonna post this and have lunch
This working from home shtick is wearing thin for all involved -- though strangely less for my boss than anyone else. I should probably be worried that they don't miss me much.. I never had any intention of going in today. But I got a little stir crazy - as I hadn't left the apartment since Friday evening. So after a semi-productive morning, I gave into online temptation and, for a god damn change, found exactly what I was in the mood for.
I wanted low key. He was low key. I didn't want to partake in bad substances but wanted the mindset of someone who was wasting away the day doing just that. He understood what I meant. I just wanted a little contact, a little skin, a little making out, a couple of laughs. He provided.
He's a boy, younger than me, definitely not the type I usually attract or are attracted to me. Messy wonderful thick dark hair and the look of a student; he is, in fact, a grad student putting off work on his dissertation or somethiing. When my car situation was explained (unexpectedly not having access to one), he offered to pick me up. We compromised, and he picked me up at the train. I brought popsicles in my cooler, which is, of course, weird. But I'm weird, and I've decided to act on those impulses because one guy's weird is another guy's charming, and trying to pretend I'm not weird just fucks things up even more.
So we returned to his place, ate popsicles, and talked for a long time. We made out. Beautiful full lips -- best kissing I've had for a while. Underneath me on his tiny couch, he felt small yet sturdy, like I imagine I feel underneath someone else. We moved to the bed eventually to spread out and be naked. He made me hard, which, in my oversexed, overtired life isn't always a possibility, so points for him.
It was just what I was looking for.
We'd make out a little, roll around a little, talk a little. It turned out he was actually at one of the fun parties I turned down this weekend and that we have a mutual friend. Small world. Don't do anything (or anyone) of which you're ashamed.
We took a break from the action, suddenly, as if we were both done for the moment. He was hungry so we dressed and went down the street for toasted subs and potato salad and root beer, still sweaty from each other, knowledgeable of each other but still smiling if we caught the other looking. Hunger satisfied, we returned to his place and watched Swimfan (What a trashy delight -- I still love Jesse Bradford) on the couch all intertwined again.
He insisted on driving me home. I was in by 7:00; watching swimming and gymnastics on the couch with a pizza.
One could really get used to afternoons like this.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
And
Scotland has won. Oh baby, have they.
horny
