Howling Quietly

I said this long ago...

2009-03-24T18:04:22Z

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.

YouTube of the Day : Spiderman-san

2006-01-23T18:23:45Z

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.

International Headlines

2006-01-11T18:04:17Z

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

Time to make the doughnuts...in heaven

2005-12-28T20:51:25Z

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)

LJ Interests meme results

2005-09-23T18:45:37Z

beauty:
Quit spitting in the face of it.
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 Concert -- Thoughts Before and After

2005-09-21T20:11:45Z

(also cross-posted from Logopolis)

"15 pounds of fuck-puppy in a 10-pound bag"

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.

It wasn’t just like I got fucked.

It was like I got fucked by Brad Patton (NSFW)

In a sling.

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.

Life, Death, and the Stories That Really Matter

2005-09-21T20:04:16Z

(cross posted from Logopolis)

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…)

butts don't smell good, except when they do

2005-09-20T15:40:21Z

I think I'm going to get this printed for a t-shirt to wear out.

Quite a few more amusing ones here:

http://www.jti.co.jp/sstyle/manners/ad/change/gallery/index.html

howlingquietly @ 2005-09-02T14:20:00

2005-09-02T19:29:37Z

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...)

The Daily Show's Rob Coddry live from the Gaza Strip

2005-08-19T17:58:47Z

“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.”

The Amazing Adventures of Croc-Fag

2005-08-16T20:04:40Z

Crocodile blood may yield powerful new drugs

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.

I'd rather give it away recreationally anyway

2005-05-06T19:59:41Z

FDA to Implement Gay Sperm Donor Rules

crossposted from my newish site

Never have I been happier...

2005-01-31T21:35:02Z

...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.

So where've you been?

2004-11-30T02:31:40Z

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.

Happy Thanksgiving

Morning Has Broken

2004-09-07T12:54:21Z

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.

The Wonder Years

2004-09-05T04:44:26Z

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.

Saturn in Cancer

2004-09-05T00:32:36Z

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.

More about pictures

2004-08-30T20:43:42Z

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.

A Little Review

2004-08-30T17:53:20Z

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

Sky rockets in flight...you know the rest

2004-08-17T05:03:38Z

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.

Obligatory non-sexual post

2004-08-16T00:29:56Z

Think Ralph Nader is the biggest whack job running for president? Guess again, my friends. This comprehensive list of the folks on the ballot for our nation's highest office is enlightening, entertaining, and, in some cases, more than a little bit scary.

My personal fave right now is Joe C. "Average Joe" Schriner (only on the ballot in Ohio -- and sadly not a washed-up reality star from the program of the same name); he's "pro-life, pro-nuclear disarmament, pro-solar energy and wants to find ways to reduce America's high divorce rate." Democracy? Democrazy!

Harnessing your anti-pheromones

2004-08-15T09:58:43Z

So I've been kind of sick this week again -- and I won't get into the nasty details except to say it's the kind of sick where you don't feel pretty -- and you certainly don't feel like sex or letting anybody around the lower half of your body. I hope you are worldly wise to get where I'm going with this without me having to draw you a scatological diagram. If not, this probably isn't the journal for you.

As is prone to happen when I decide to hole up on the couch for a weekend and detox and be well-behaved, every fun bad boy I've met in the last month or so decides to call within those 48 hours to tempt me. And I have to make the "I'm interested, really, but not right now even though I've got nothing better to do this evening" sound genuine, because really, it is. Timing often sucks, but sometimes I think it's more than that. It's like the universe waits until you're entirely not wanting something and then it drops it right in your lap. I sometimes think that my body emits anti-pheromones, in a vain attempt to keep potential partners away, but because the heart wants what it cannot have, I end up attracting men more. If only I could bottle these anti-pheromones up and save them for later.

A perfect example of this happened Friday evening:

After a morning spent at the doctor's -- where they had to rehydrate me with fluids before they took my blood -- managing to blow out a vein in the process, I had lunch with the ultra-charming-even-when-depressed billyduran (shallow dishy sidenote: no matter what he might fret about in his journal, his new shavey-head look is smokin' hot. It's no wonder boys are lining up to shit on his dick.) before heading to see my head doctor downtown. Rather than have my train ride home coincide with the lucky drunken idiots leaving the Cubs game, I decided to grab a soft drink at the Gentry on State -- because drunken gay idiots in suits are a much easier crowd to navigate.

So let's review: literally ass-sick all week, poked at all day with tons of fluids going in and out of artificially created holes, lunch with a boy who despises sex and has a brand new disgusting sex story to tell me, and an hour spent in a smokey piano bar with sad gay men who are reflections of my potential lonely future. Could I have felt less sexy?

But still...

I take the purple line express home, isolating myself from the crowds, typing notes and journal entries into my Treo (for the curious, that's where all the "good shit" i.e. sexcapades and other info is tracked) and making a "to do" list for the weekend. (As I battle insomnia at 3 am on a Saturday, rest assured, none of its been done.) I'm looking forward to my evening of ramen noodles and watching Outfoxed -- which I managed to purchase for $7 at the Virgin store downtown (God, I love it when media moguls hate each other -- the consumer ends up winning.)

I look up only once and notice a young guy with glasses in a blue button-up shirt and tie -- dark hair in a definite "jarhead" cut. There are guys who shave their heads in this way who look like bankers with a buzzcut and there are guys who look like they just got out of the Marines. He was the latter. I looked away but managed to steal a few more glances. I didn't feel sexy but I'm not dead.

When I get to my stop at South Boulevard, I bound down the stairs. There are two stairways that feed down into one, and as they merged, the Jarhead and I hit the stairway at the same time. Did our eyes meet? Surely not, but I slowed a few steps to let him pass so I could take a look at his ass. He was smaller than I'd realized, shorter than me by 4 inches at least. I hadn't noticed this when he was sitting because his shoulders were so broad. And you know what they say about short, built guys and their asses... well, they actually don't say anything but if they were, it'd be that they usually have nice ones. Jarhead was no exception.

As we get to the swinging door, he stutter steps a little and holds the door for me. Was he aware of me behind him? I must be imagining this. I note the Obama button on the shoulder strap of his laptop case -- the first clear sign I have that he's not a trader returning from the Exchange floor heading home to watch Fox News before beating off to thoughts of Greta Van Susteren. And you all know how politically aware hotties are my favorite kind. The stakes have been raised.

But he turns right as I turn left. Then, I could swear he glances again when I turn my back. I stop at the Sun Times box, pretending to have my attention caught by the headline about the Tribune Company's lack of permits for the new WGN satellite (speaking of media conglomerates and petty fueds...) He continues to walk away but definitely glances back. Jesus, he is cruising me.

I'm going to take a break from my story to inform those readers who might not be aware of Chicago's geography of the oddity of this situation. South Boulevard is in Evanston. It is nowhere near Belmont, Addison, or even the Sheridan L stops on the Red Line, where lingering stares, coy smiles, and the visual equivalant of crotch grabbing are a little bit more frequent. And though in liberal Evanston, it is not near the Northwestern campus -- where there's enough sexually confused undergrads that they would be wise to open a Center for Bicurious Studies (I'd gladly be an adjunct professor); despite the presence of yours truly and a couple of other homos whom I only spot jogging when I'm stumbling home in the wee hours, your chances of street cruising here are roughly equivalent to your odds of getting hot play in a nursing home.

So this is why when Jarhead looks over his shoulder not once but twice, I'm still certain I'm misreading the situation. So I walk toward home until stopped by the light at the cross walk; he's looking back again. The light changes. I don't follow the "walk" signal. He stops. I turn away but still don't cross even though the light hasn't changed yet. He starts walking toward me.

So I've won. I haven't misread the situation. I've ensnared the prey. Fuck. Now what. I can't take him home. I don't want to take him home. I'd love a nice neighborly fuck. But not right now. I turn away, and the light has just turned "Don't Walk."

I turn back. He's walking quickly but no more confidently to me. I decide I'm obligated to be the man in the situation, and keep watching him as he gets closer -- his eyes looking anywhere but constantly aware of what I'm doing. He's younger than I realized, much much younger. As I type this a few days later, in fact, I realize he might have been de-training in my family friendly neighborhood because he still lives with his parents. Yikes.

But none of this weighs on my brain in the moment. I smile as he got closer, and he tilts his head a bit -- the first time he loses that Marine rigidness. I give a "what's up?" that sounds lame when described as dialogue but in the moment was quite appropriate. He says nothing, just grins, looks down at his polished black shoes, and grins again. God, he's young. And shy. I step back for a second, considering crossing the street to see if the puppy dog will follow me all the way home without exchanging more words, simply because I have no idea what to do. But as I step away, he breaks his composure. He says nothing but his face says "Don't walk." He was hungry and I love this.

But he also gives me nothing else with which to work. And I can't take him home. Even if I had the place to myself, I'd been sick there for a week and it showed. And oh yes, I've been sick. Non-sexy types of sick. I'm reminded of the story I heard over lunch, decide it was a cautionary tale, and realize this is not meant to be.

I turn, give a wink and an equally-lame-yet-also-cool "Have a good night" and walk across the street. He's confused, but so am I. He's said no words thus far -- what can he expect? Maybe I've taught a boy to be more aggressive. Or at least to say hello. Who knows? I head home, ego stroked if nothing else, and fall asleep on the couch before I can even unwrap my CD.

howlingquietly @ 2004-08-04T16:35:00

2004-08-04T21:39:52Z

Comments below seem to suggest that there is some secret hidden sex stories to my journal. Actually, I hardly ever use the "friends" functionality. I have little shame apparently. So any sex stories are just as public as the other stuff...

So as I started to say last week, lots and lots of good play lately. Any psychiatrist would tell you that my increased desire for sex is just a way to deal with the fear of my own mortality. Well, except for mine, who tells me when I come in all gloomy and give him my weekly report says, "Don't forget to have some fun." So yes, this has been prescribed by my physician.

Anyway, there are lots of highlights, but last night sort of overwhelmed them all. 6'3, 185#, 46c, blonde, hairy chest, killer eyes, 29 like me...but rich... and even beats me in the "boy next door looks but really nasty behind closed doors" competition. ("yeah I was surprised too") He just kept saying "wow" as he gave me a ride back to Evanston this morning -- and I did too. Of course, this will be the one who never calls, I'm sure.

The Trouble with Journals

2004-07-30T19:01:10Z

I've often noted that the main trouble with me and journal writing -- something I've done on and off since I was 12 -- which is a shocking 17 years people!!! -- is that whenever I'm doing interesting stuff that I should be recording, I don't have the time or energy to actually write it down.

Keeping a semi-public journal is worse -- even if you only have a couple of folks reading -- because most of the interesting stuff I do is for adult-eyes only -- and I often have the self-censor on, so it becomes a question of telling all and seeming like the whore I am or lying and seeming boring.

(Sidebar: I've been thinking a lot about the Pet Shop Boys songs "Being Boring" and "Rent" lately and how they, in some ways, shaped my high school identity -- more on this later, just thought about it again and don't want to forget to write about it.)

So in other words, that's my intriguing excuse for not having written much in my journal lately. Lots of amazing, nasty sex.

Highlights include someone I've been fantasizing about for 10 years but to whom I've never actually spoken.

(This is what we in the industry call a "teaser" folks -- stay tuned.)

Sports Report

2004-07-30T16:23:20Z

14 Days Until the Summer Olympics.

How come those that advertise as having a "swimmer's build" on gay fuck sites are usually just too skinny? Thatis a swimmer's build.

Of course, football is still my sport of choice. I'd be center for the Auburn backfeld anytime.

(When I originally saw this picture, there were also individual shots of each of the back's running. Impressive -- especially the big old fullback. Fullbacks are like baseball catchers -- the position typically filled with big guys I'm going who will inspire lust.)