Wednesday, August 31, 2005

The Kickback

I think keeping this journal of sorts has made me think more on a casual basis. I always work best when I have someone to impress, and a semi-anonymous readership of infinite potential is an ideal source of motivation. On the other hand, it's pretty irritating because I keep thinking of things when I'm out and forgetting about them by the time I sit down to write. I'm going to push through as many things from the past day or so as I can remember.

I just read in The Advocate that yet another high school, this one in Georgia, has decided to ban all non-academic clubs for the purpose of banning a gay-straight alliance. This is the sort of stuff I both love to hate and hate to love. I love to hate it for obvious reasons: I see banning a gay-straight alliance as so unequivocally wrong. I don't have to constantly entertain another side in my mind while I'm thinking about this issue. It's so clear: they're being motherfuckers. I suppose the only other side, one of my favorite controversies, is the question: should someone always do what they believe is right, even if you believe that what they believe is right is absolutely wrong? It's such a great question...right on the border of ill-formed. That might be my favorite question to ask myself in times of intellectual boredom. Should you always do what you believe is right? Well, of course you should! Act on what you believe is right! But what if that comes into conflict with what other people think is right? The Inquisition might be a good example. Putting aside the likely case that the Inquisition's motivation was to wield power, not to save souls, if they really did think they were saving souls when they forced people to confess as they were tortured and killed, given that they had this belief, were they doing wrong? I mean, surely we'd all hurt somebody in the short term to save that person in the long term, right? We might tie a loved one who was an addict to a bed so they could go through withdrawal. We might break up an abusive relationship even if it seriously emotionally hurts the person in the short run. So why wouldn't we force the person we loved to obey rigid standards that defied their impulses and desires if we were sure it would get their soul into the kingdom of heaven? I don't think we can really set standards by saying "you can do whatever you want as long as it doesn't violate another person's rights" because rights are somewhat subjective. I mean, I think I know exactly what rights people have. I'd love to set those rights as standards for everyone else. But I have to acknowledge that my reasoning isn't universal and I have no reason to believe a priori that I am better qualified than anyone else to make these decisions.

So where was I? Right, why I hate to love these people who cancel all extracurriculars just to stop a gay-straight alliance. Well, at least they're making themselves clear. I find something very refreshing about the Fred Phelpses of the world. The people who are willing to say "God hates fags and so do I!" We know where he stands. We know he's homophobic. I find much more disturbing people who say they're not homophobic but then add in "It's not about that. It's about protecting marriage. And the children." Stop playing politician, kids. You're trying to protect marriage and children from homosexuals. That means you think that homosexuals are something you need to be protected from. You may say you think children do best with two parents of different sexes, but can you really think that the damage caused by not having this sort of parenting situation can possibly be worse than any of many legal things? Alcoholic parents? Single parents? Mentally ill parents? Cold parents? Parents who smother you? Parents who push you too hard? Parents who unwittingly look at you in the wrong way when you're three and thereby screw you up for life? I imagine there are many, many ways in which children can be hurt by even well-meaning, well-equipped parents that far outweigh the problems caused by missing a parent of one of the two sexes. Let's face it. We're all messed up to a degree, and that degree is much higher than the messed uppedness having same sex parents could possibly cause.

But getting back to people who piss me off. Almost worse than the politicians are the people who act like they're doing the world a favor by not being racist/sexist/homophobic/classist. It's hard for me to put my finger on, but I see people who constantly carry the attitude of "Acknowledge my goodness! I am not like those other white/male/straight/wealthy people who choose to look down on you. I have chosen to put myself at your level. Am I not good?" This feeling that you had a choice in the matter, that you could have been awful but instead chose not to, is absolutely appalling to me. This notion carries the tacit notion that you do have some sort of superiority. If you truly believe in something, here, equality, you should not feel at all self-congratulatory for acting on it. If you have that feeling, you don't believe in equality with your whole being. Now, I should be clear that all traits that really piss me off in other people I experience in myself. I occasionally catch myself feeling self-congratulatory, and it's one of several things that bring me a constant feeling of guilt.

Wow, I had so much more to say, but it's time to watch SVU. I'll write more tonight. On important things. Like New Orleans, the 850-or-so deaths in Iraq today, and the rape charges brought against a fellow Rumpus staffer.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Straddling the Edge

I really should be carrying a journal around with me. Some of my best thoughts, as far as I can tell, happen when I'm sitting around and staring into space or driving. And then I always forget them when I come to write in my blog. So, at the risk of causing accidents on the Bronx River, I should get me a journal. But I'll do my best for now.

Today I went wine tasting with Vaughan. While the day was a little low energy due to the oppressive weather and early hour of arousal, I, of course, had an amazing time. The wineries themselves were great. Every building we tasted in was beautiful, but some were more glorious than others. Taking the cake was Raphael, whose large rooms, Mediterranean feel, magnificent views, and gorgeous furniture only served to highlight their superb wines. The first place we went to, Jamestown, I believe, was also a highlight. The building was a bit rustic, all wood, and the man who gave us the wine was friendly and informative. He and V had a good little chat about the supreme court ruling on wine importation (or something of the like) and he told us a bit about the long island wineries. The wines, in general, were very good. I think over the course of the day I actually developed a taste for Merlot and discovered Cabernet Franc, which is bold and fruity (much like a flamer in the deep south). I also honed my still fairly dull ability to pick out tastes from wine. The first one I discovered was pepper. It's a really strong smell, and it is peppery, but I wouldn't have placed it as such today. I can also get the plum/cherry/blackberry taste and can smell fruit and flowers a bit. I'll need some more work before I can name the percentages of each ingredient.

We also met a crazy and/or--emphasis on the and--drunk woman in one of the wineries. Apparently she plans on opening a dessert place on the end of the island. And she wanted to call it something silly like the "just at the edge dessert plaza." The wine man suggested "On the Edge." Vaughan and I said that sounded a little suspicious, but she assured us that they all had multiple personality disorder there, so it would be accurate. So I suggested "Off the Edge." She decided to compromise at the awful-mental-image-conjuring "Straddling the Edge." I whispered to V that that sounded like a name for a bisexual bar. She also seemed to have a very specific idea of what my relationship to V was. I believe she thought we were dating but we hadn't been dating for long. When she asked me if I was in any kind of therapy (do you get how she's crazy?), I told her that I was in therapies both dermatological and headache-preventional. And, I added, my headache prevention medicine could act as a mood alterer in higher dosages. Vaughan asked what it was, and I told him, and the woman seemed shocked that I would tell this man the name of my medication, like he would be scared away by it. Clearly she doesn't know many Jews and Catholics.

And the day outside of the act of wine tasting was lovely as well. Of course the two hour car rides flew by as we sang to Vaughan's ipod playlists...his "singin in the car" playlist reigned on the way there, and I did most of the picking on the way back. We had a nice listening to the uptempo songs from that great work of theater, On the 20th Century. Ah, the joys of belting "Babette" driving down the highway. The pleasures you may never know. Hanging out with Vaughan was great...even if the conversation stalled a little more than usual. Social genius, that man is. Some of the potential readership of this blog is, too. Social savants know not their strength! Use your power for good.

OK, I had more to say about not feeling like I own my intelligence...but I may have discussed that already, can always come back to that in the future. For now, you have the summary of today.

Chin Up, Keep Muddling Through

I got rejected from BMI, bah. I was pretty upset about that today, but I've decided to do the healthy thing and repress all of my emotions and make this a damn interesting blog entry if it kills me.

OK, so what's interesting? I was thinking today about the way we, nowadays, portray aliens in our movies. They're robot-ish, intelligent but difficult to understand, but perhaps most importantly, they usually ooze some kind of unfortunate fluid or have disturbing eyes or unappealingly textured skin. I have to figure that our portrayal of aliens is really just a portrayal of how we believe outsiders would view humans. In some ways, the answer is good, in that we're intelligent. But the answer is also an emphasis of the strangeness of our bodies. How we may appreciate them because we're used to them, but they're really slimy and disturbing and would appall anyone who was unfamiliar with them and encountered them. These aliens are also usually immoral creatures with a hint of amorality. It's a bit of "they know not what they do...ok, well, maybe they have a clue and just don't care...or take a little bit of sadistic pleasure in it." It expresses an ambivalence about the negative aspects of our nature. We reap all we can from the planet, from the animals, from each other under the guise of survival. But we really do know what we're doing. And maybe we get more than a little bit of a kick out of pillaging earth. Now, why do I assert that our portrayal of aliens is a reflection on how we view ourselves? To me it seems intuitive, but at least part of it is that we are conceiving of a different intelligent life. But we can't conceive of a kind of intelligent life we know nothing about, so we just emphasize and deemphasize human features. The alien is what we both desire and fear in our fellow man. He is "the other," but not so other than any part of him is truly alien to us.

Now wasn't that interesting? And almost coherent considering I wrote it after my bedtime?

Something else I was chatting with my Dad about the other day: I'm not sure that I believe in catharsis. Now, that's not to say that absolutely nothing is cathartic. I'll grant that sometimes it can be good to cry or exercise or whatever. But I generally find, as does research, I believe, that a so called act of catharsis only very temporarily sates a desire and, in the long run, actually increases that desire. I mean, that's how sex/masturbation/orgasms work, right? You don't desire it much until you start it. Then the need becomes more frequent. Speak to anyone who's been out of a relationship for a week: they desperately crave sex. Speak to anyone who hasn't hooked up with anyone in two years: they'd like it, but the need isn't so immediate. Catharsis is somewhat self-defeating, here. This is also the case with violent movies. Some say these movies get out the tendency toward violence in a non-destructive way. I believe most studies show that by watching violent movies, people really do become more violent. I would love to believe in catharsis for all desires, just I as I would love to believe that there's absolutely no drawback to watching porn. Unfortunately, all experience points against both of these.

Also interesting! Discuss amongst yourselves. Or in the comments section.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Up and Running to NYC Tomorrow Morning

As for the first part of the title of this entry, my website, www.maggiewittlin.com, is up and running! I think it's pretty stellar, and even given that you probably got here via that site, I feel I should tell you to go and explore. It's awesome. I think.

And for the second part of the title, tomorrow we move Natalie into her dorm. Aaah! I can't believe she's going to college...not because she seems too young, but actually because she seems too old. She's not wildly excited for college, because she lived on her own for most of the summer and, to be honest, most of the year. She doesn't really want for freedom, and the work she's been doing at the voice has been intellectually stimulating. On the other hand, she's not dreading college, because she's used to most aspects of it. I really hope she finds things she loves at Barnard. And people she loves. And I hope she doesn't get wigged out by the simple fact that she is going to be in a FRESHMAN class with other FRESHMEN (freshwomyn?), half of whom will probably need to be bitch-slapped. I'm sure she'll be OK, though. I think college will be bad in exactly the ways she's resilient to and be good in exactly the ways she needs. At least I really hope so. Only the best for my sister.

Yesterday I saw The Pillowman with Greg. My God. That might have been the best show I've ever seen. No, really, I think it might have been. There were so many incredible moments, and the whole show just had my emotions and thoughts on a string. Except for the end of the first act (which was probably actually the second out of three acts), which involved a bit of a cliche that was supposed to be pulled off as shocking, I think. But besides that, it was awesome. And spending time with Greg was, as always, great. He seemed a bit insulted that he hadn't yet been mentioned on the blog, so I'm going to chat about Greg for a bit.

I wondered why I hadn't said anything about him yet, considering I've spent more time with him than pretty much anyone else this summer. I'll venture a couple of guesses. First, my relationship with Greg is very simple: I just plain like him. I have a good time when I'm with Greg. We have a lot (beyond interests and into mannerisms, etc) in common. And while I've become somewhat closer with him recently, this isn't much of a surprise. I've always known Greg was great. And I don't want to jump him, so that eliminates that motive for talking about someone ad nauseum. Second, Greg's going to remain more of a fixture as the year begins than pretty much anyone else. I guess there won't be any sudden changes in Ethan's life either, but Greg's already working and makes lots of time for me. Other people are already elsewhere or will soon be starting school or some other activity that will decrease their availability. So I feel confident that Greg's sticking around. And third, why should I be justifying my lack of discussion on the subject of Greg? I feel like I've been talking about two or three friends almost exclusively since I started writing this thing. Really, the blog is fucking self-centered. Because I'm fucking self-centered. Because I spend my entire day with me, and everything that's done to me affects me, and I care very deeply about me.

So, friends, the moral of that paragraph was: just because I don't talk about you, it doesn't mean I don't love you. It's just a function of me loving me somewhat more and of me being secure in my relationship with you. Which is important. So feel proud to be wholly absent from the blog! But don't get too scared if there are twenty references to you already. It doesn't mean anything too bad. Probably. Moohoowahaha...no, really. It doesn't.

Ugh, I have to wake up early tomorrow.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Ultimatum

I have just found the great satisfaction and calm that comes from issuing an ultimatum. In this case the ultimatum was to digitalibiz.com, who is SUPPOSED to be hosting my website (the in progress and awesome maggiewittlin.com). They did not, as promised, respond to my support request within 24 hours, and I have informed them that if the problem is not fixed, or at least seriously addressed, by 9 am tomorrow, I will take advantage of their 30-day money back guarantee and take my damn business elsewhere. Oh, I feel powerful! I feel decisive! I feel like a business woman! I will see if they respond accordingly, and if not, web.com has an even better deal than theirs. Digital iBiz will know no wrath, no fits, no anger. They will simply see $115 withdrawn from their earnings. OK, I may post some mean comments on review boards, too. We'll see.

Tarot

I just finished another rousing victory in solitare. I think I've gotten worse at the game since I started playing sometime this semester when I had no work. That might be because my skill level has decreased, but it is more likely due to a sudden increase in my standards. It is not enough for me to win the game...in order to claim true victory, I have to win WELL. A perfect game would be one that ends with four aces on top and full columns of cards (even better, I suppose, would be no aces and full columns including aces, but I hardly try for that). The closer to this the better, and I judge each completion based on what card is the highest card up top when the game is won. If there are three aces and a four, then it's a four...there's no averaging. This means that during games I will start to compromise: if I put one deuce up top, I become willing to put the other three up top if it betters my chances of winning. In any case, that game is a minimum level two...it can no longer achieve the coveted title of Level One Victory. Cards may, occasionally, be brought down from the top during a game. If it was convenient to, say, put a three up top early on in the game, but then I needed to join a four to a two, I could bring that three down. I cannot, however, bring cards down without immediate need.

I have to struggle, somewhat, not to find meaning in these games. Solitare, and its more addictive cousin, Minesweeper, bring me into a sort of aggravated Zen state where I feel as if I've found the meaning of my life and the universe in the randomness of the spread. Minesweeper does this more effectively, as it is infinitely more absorbing due to its nature: it is a constant, immediate puzzle. I become absorbed in these games, and I have to convince myself that every aspect is a random function generated by my computer. These patterns are not beautiful fractals. I cannot "sense" what is going to happen...what cards will turn up, how many mines will be adjacent to a specific space. God does not favor me in these games. There is no higher power concerning himself (or herself, I suppose, but my mysticism says him) with my victory ratio. I am not being timed, sent back to my life after just the right number of lost solitare games. Still, the feeling is inevitable. This grand mysticism only heightens my actual atheism. If I can feel divine presence in something so straightforward and artificial as a solitare game, then this feeling is irrational and I can dismiss it from the larger scale notion of "fate."

Although I do--and, wow, do I hate to say it--sort of believe in fate. I kind of can't get around it. I ultimately believe that I will succeed in life, and that belief is based on my faith in fate. Well, fate and the clawing encouragement of others. So many people have expressed confidence in me over the years. They all truly believe that I will do well. I have an incredible urge to be self-defeating, mostly because others seem to believe it is my fate to do great things, and I desperately want to take my fate into my own hands...or at least out of God's. I want to disprove that notion and allow everyone I know to wallow in great disappointment. "Wallow, teachers! Wallow, relatives! Wallow, friends! See how I, a brilliant, competent, semi-mentally healthy woman have failed you all!" And I will not have failed myself, because great things were never really on my agenda. I can still think and write and produce what I need to while living a simple life. God, at times I really, really just want to work at Borders for eight hours a day and live in a crappy apartment in Mount Vernon and hang out with friends and write prose and lyrics and occasionally take pictures of naked men.

Would that be so bad? Would I really be as unsatisfied as everyone says I would? Would I be less satisfied than if I were a lawyer or consultant or some profession that stimulated my intellect and sapped my soul? I'd rather space out for eight hours a day than bill on 12 minute cycles and feel the same stress my father regularly feels. I'll probably take the middle way and do something all right. Mediocrity isn't as glorious as sublime failure, I know, but I think it's enough. I'll go into communications. I'll do well. Perhaps in 10 years I'll be reasonably respected in that field. Maybe I'll write one full-length musical and it will be listenable and amusing but somewhat incoherent and not at all provocative. Maybe I'll make $100,000 a year at my earning peak. Maybe I'll have a few good relationships but never get married. And for the ultimate in half-assedness, maybe I'll carry a child for a nice gay couple I love and get to see the kid on weekends. There would be something horribly beautiful in all of that.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like School

The summer, as it is usually delineated, is rapidly winding down. We are in the last throws of August, and most incoming freshmen are already at pre-orientation programs. Natalie goes to school in a week. Lauren is leaving for fucking michigan on fucking wednesday...Jess for freakin' Italy not too long after...Soon even Vaughan will be back at work, filling young minds with physics and philosophy and terror. And I'm stuck doing absolutely squat while I hope to get a job offer...or at least an interview. The transition from vacation to unemployment is going to be a fairly quick and brutal one, and I'm not looking forward to it. These are the days when I wish I had taken the job with R.A. Rapaport. I saw their ad up again...maybe they'd take me if I came crawling back.

But I won't go crawling back. I'm going to patiently and quietly go after every good job that pops up until I get a letter from the ACLU saying "please be my media relations liaison!" or a letter from michael lucas saying "please be my right hand woman!" Wow, if I could work for Michael Lucas I would just flip. He's everything I could want in a business man...a Russian Jewish immigrant who worked his way up from nothing to the greatest gay porn producer/star east of LA. He doesn't drink or smoke or do drugs, and he always uses protection and insists that his actors do as well. He's a fresh perspective on life, and doesn't think that gay people should get married, even though they should have the right to because "we pay the same taxes as everyone else." And he's really hot.

Have I mentioned that I really, really want to get into BMI? If I get into BMI, I'll be a happy person. I promise. Not permanently happy, but I'll at least be happy for a little while. Because if I get into BMI, then my life will have some semblance of direction. My job will only be my day job, and hopefully I'll love my day job and want to turn it into an awesome day career, but if I don't love it, oh well, I'm a budding lyricist who needs to support herself. If I don't get into BMI, then I'm looking for the beginning of a career...the beginning of my life. And I'm just not ready for that yet! That's the sort of thing that will drive me to law school...and I don't think I REALLY want to go to law school...it's just the least time for the highest degree and therefore the job that requires the most interesting thought. Hm, hopefully if I get rejected from BMI, I will be notified right before I go wine tasting with Vaughan next week. Then I can get drunk on fine long island wines (wow, something fine comes out of long island?) and check out men with V. And it will all seem OK...until the next day when I'm alone with monster and idealist.org.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Let's Hear It For the Girls

Some of my best high school memories are of "girls' nights," where we'd sit in Amy's den and eat fondue and watch Patrick Swayze movies. Usually all this was followed by a bisected game of truth or dare ("Truth," as the case was) where we'd find out just a little too much about Jenny's love life. She enjoyed having sex with Josh in a mirrored bathroom where she could watch herself. Josh has an 8-inch penis and can autofellate. Jenny sort of left the group before we could hear about STDs and how she was having too much sex to pass into sophomore year of college. In any case, girls' nights were great. While I felt as though I'd spilled my guts about my elementary school homoerotic adventures and my early predilection toward masturbation in the first session or so, there was always more to talk about, and talk we did.

This year, Jess R. started a little weekly gathering where four of us girls would get together and eat a pizza dinner and gab. Alexandria floated in at the beginning and out at the middle, but this particular group solidified around the four of us: Jess, Lauren, Jen and myself. This weekend, Jen came up from Philly for a girls' reunion. We got together at Jess's house on Friday night, made pasta and watched Love Actually. Yesterday we got manicures/pedicures/massages, I went to Woodbury commons with Jen and Lauren for cheap and awesome Pumas, and we all reconvened at Lauren's for some Chinese food and half of three movies. Today was slaving, City Limits and The Wedding Crashers with Jen and Lauren. All so great.

I like these people a lot. Maybe it's because Jen and Lauren are, in some was, two of my biggest fans. I suppose that cheapens our relationship, so allow me to rephrase it: Jen and Lauren completely understand my humor and I love the form conversation takes when I'm around them. I'm at once intelligent and witty and silly and fun, and I feel them responding in kind. I react to them well, they react to me well, and we get into a great rapport. And, let's face it, I like looking into their eyes. No, no, not gazing romantically or any of that crap. They're just good at exchanging looks of understanding. Although to put myself just a step back in the red, it's not wholly different from what I enjoy in the men I like. The dynamic of looking into their eyes, them looking back, us laughing, is the entirety of what I find attractive. But with the men, I want to kiss them. With the girls, the buck stops at the conversation. (I almost wrote "the buck stops before the bucking starts." Should I have?)

This whole "public diary" thing is a little funky, because I'm somewhat unwilling to put down any truly personal information. I mean, SURE, my interest in gay porn, the fact that I naked-humped two of my best female friends on a regular basis in third grade, my elation when I found out that cunnilingus actually existed and it wasn't merely a creation of my masturbatory fantasy can all go up here, but these are practically universal knowledge! God, I hope potential future employers don't read this. Although I suppose that information is none too incriminating, if too much to swallow at a first glance. The problem with the public diary is not those bits of information, but more than I could never say I dislike someone I know or even overtly say that I have a crush on somebody I have a crush on, obvious as it may or may not be to that person and the rest of the world.

Anybody might be reading, and I don' t mind ANYBODY, I mind very, very specific people taking a glance at the blog and seeing my true feelings about them splayed out onto virtual paper. Or worse, they could see the fleeting sensation of the moment on the virtual paper and assume those were my true feelings. And perhaps more dangerous than my extreme feelings for people is my nonchalance toward others...people who would like to be slightly obsessed over or other people I should, in theory, despise. Perhaps I just don't care that much. Perhaps my personality tends so much toward the obsessive that my feelings toward my best friends are completely eclipsed by my feelings toward some cute guy who's certainly nice enough, who shares a delicious rapport with me and who, of course, has wonderfully sparkly eyes. But that guy doesn't joyously sacrifice hours every week he's near to be with me. I'm not the first one he comes to when he has problems or tickets. Those friends are! And that really should build our relationship. Damn you, evolution, for being so successful in putting my sexual and romantic interests above all else. And damn you more for giving me a hankerin' for men I can never have! Why blame my insecurities when I can blame evolution? Better it than my mother.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Last Night's Dream (not an entertaining post)

I've been told never to tell anyone my dreams. Not because people want to repress me or anything, just because there's nothing duller than hearing about someone else's dream. I'm sure that's true...it's exactly like telling a story where you can't remember the flow and there's no punchline and the other person doesn't know the characters (they've come out of your head...they're not even the real people). Add all this to the fact that it's just not real and nobody suffered any real consequences and the question "So how did he react?" is completely useless, and you have a crappy, crappy-ass monologue.

But to hell with that. This is MY blog.

Last night I dreamt that my grandparents, my sweet, innocent, slightly hard-of-hearing but still with their wits about them grandparents had plotted to kill my father. And each member of my family (my mother, my sister, and myself) had a part to play in the killing of my dad, which we were supposed to perform with easy deception and calm. My mother did her part, I'm sure, my grandparents did more than their part, and to my shock, I performed my assigned part, hardly comprehending what I was doing. My sister was the only one who refused to do anything. At some point, we were all, grandparents included, father not, sitting around my living room. It was clear to me that my father had already been killed, and my mother mentioned something about calling him or waiting to get home. While everyone was aware of exactly what was going on, nobody dared spoil the perfect facade, until I spat something at my mother about "...and EXECUTION," and she burst into tears. I, too, began to cry and started to hug her. I motioned for my sister to come hug us, but she refused to join her murderous family. I kept saying "Just us!" meaning that the hug would exclude the grandparents, the true villains in the scheme and the ones who would have to suffer least because of it. Natalie did come over and joined the hug, and we all wailed as we began to accept that our father would never be back.

So yeah, tough shit. I woke up shakier than I have been in years, after a dream. Had I had this dream at age 5, I so would have been in my parents bed in about three seconds. But as it was, I lay there until I fell asleep again and had a few just as vivid but much less disturbing dreams.

Why my grandparents? I've certainly had enough dreams about their deaths, and I've always been shaken to the core thinking that they'll someday die. And, not to be too negative, but their deaths will probably--and, dare I say it, hopefully--come many years before that of my father. I love them. They're really great folks, despite their general geriatricness. I saw them today. Things have certainly gotten much more awkward between myself and the grandparents. I don't really know what to talk with them about. Then again, I'm not close to many adults (real adults, I mean) besides my parents. I don't get much beyond polite conversation with even the closest of my mom's friends, and I keep a significant emotional distance between myself and my former teachers. So maybe it's the adult thing. Then again, Mr. Arrigo has read most, if not all, of the erotica I've written...including those pieces I haven't published. Like the one between two very thinly veiled teachers. Some adults, perhaps, don't need to be protected so much. Then again, I know a little too much about exactly how Mr. Arrigo takes his sexual pleasure. Perhaps I shouldn't assume they're OK with hearing the raunchy stuff until they've extended some hint in my direction.

Natalie tries to avoid Griz and Bucky (the grandparents) as much as possible. I know she has no interest in seeing them because she doesn't have anything to talk about with them, either. I can hardly blame her. But my Mom thinks there's something more. She thinks they scare her because they're old. I can understand that, too. Age is a bit of a disability. Every time I pick something up for them, I feel like I'm flaunting my own nimbleness. And then there's the whole imminent doom(ain?) thing. My my grandmother's 77 and my grandfather's pushing 81. While this doesn't mean they're in their last five or even ten years, they're hitting the life expectancy. How many people really live to 95? It's very scary that they'll be gone relatively soon. I've already spent substantially more than half the time I will ever spend with them. Wow...I've never thought of it that way before. Will they ever see their great-grandchildren? Maybe I really should get a boyfriend...start the ball rolling and all.

Aberration in the Suburbs

Tonight I had a lovely Japanese dinner with Alisa at a place called Abis in Mamaroneck. The great virtue of Abis is their stunning ginger salad dressing. My Christ, you've never tasted anything like this stuff before. We buy "Gio" Japanese ginger by the bottle, and Gio is good, no doubt, but it can't hold a flickering candle to Abis's ginger dressing. Alas, I forgot that long enough not to order the salad, boo, and was forced to bum a leaf of lettuce off of Alisa.

As we got into her car to pull out of our much coveted Mamaroneck parking space, I turned to see, walking down the main street of quaint Mamaroneck, the most garishly dressed transvestite ever. In the history of Greenwich Village, Castro, Oxford Street in Sydney...wherever. Our subject probably started as an overweight light-skinned black man in his mid forties. He added a long, straight black wig (decidedly the best accessory in his ensemble) and some hot pink lipstick that just overstepped his lip line. He wore a long, flowing boa/robe. The feathers--hot pink, of course--lined a lacey body that might have looked near-appropriate on a transvestite with a trim figure. Our subject was not this transvestite. The real kicker of the outfit lay under the robe, where a massive ass was draped with a tiny, white tennis skirt, and enormous man-boobs and a rolling belly bounced under a transparent black mesh top, giant man-boob nipples undulating with every step. Somehow my eyes didn't even make it to the shoes. He was horrible and frightening, yet I couldn't look away. The whole staff and patronage of the Verizon store stepped forward a few seconds after he passed to gape and gawk and the like.

Now, I suppose it's generally considered proper etiquette to call a transvestite "she." Unfortunately, I don't think this feller--yes, feller--earned that right. Many transvestites are a credit to my sex. They dress better than I do. Their makeup is neatly, if brightly applied. They most certainly have better upper arms than I. Our specimen was an insult to all transvestites as well as transsexuals and transgendered folks, who, by the unfortunate non-coincidence of having the same prefix, get grouped under a common heading. Perhaps the boy started in the Village, was told to walk north to find Chelsea, missed it, and kept going. I don't know. I just hope he continued and made it to Playland. Atrocious taste and all, he's exactly what the Westchester kids need.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Diary?

I just finished a reasonably awesome book called Magical Thinking. It's a series of vignettes from the life of gay neurotic genius genius genius Augusten Burroughs. He's uneducated. He's self-obsessed. He's successful. So, pretty much, he's living the American dream of getting columns upon columns of acclaim for writhing on paper. Few to motivate him, none to guide him. So I've been obsessively browsing his website, not least because he's a bit of a looker, that one is, and he gives the advice that those who want to become writers should write every day. It's the same advice every writer gives, really, but it takes someone I want to listen to in order to push an idea through my head. It's like how three people recommended Me Talk Pretty One Day, but I only got to it after Vaughan recommended it. Did I mention why I read Magical Thinking?

In any case, I'm going to attempt to write every day. It's going to be shit, I warn you. I am leading the drab life of the unemployed, which not only gives me limited interaction with the outside world, but also turns discrete events into one long smudge of "day," letting the stories blend in with the rest. I expect my "voice" will change. I just pondered the concept of finding my Voice and noted that it's still not here. Are you imagining Ariel furiously clawing at Eric, trying to demonstrate that the black haired bitch next to him is an evil, butch sea-witch and not the love of his life? I sure am. In any case, I can get into modes...LOL mode, dorky-witty mode, bitter homo mode (I'm right around there now)...but I can't just talk. Then again my audible voice gets into modes, too. Maybe it's hopeless.

But, Goddamn it, I'm going to try. However, now I need to help Natalie get all techy and shit. And by "all techy and shit" I mean she hasn't signed onto her Barnard email yet because it's broken and she barely cares. While I wish she were more thrilled for college, as that would mean a guarantee that she'd actually go come two Mondays from now, I'm secretly really, really proud that she's not getting into "yay, college! I heart Barnard! Best four years of my life!" mode. Because that will only set her up for disappointment...it sure set me up for disappointment, and I only had a toe or two through that door.

In any case, get so unexcited for the diary. Several entries a day. You know you love it 'cause it hurts so good.