Choire Sicha

Saturday, June 7

Dear Diary, I've been cheating on you. This week I've favored much of my time and many of my words on just one man. After three years of publishing on the web, it feels somewhat perverse to keep the most private things private. But I've learned that a torrid private correspondence has its own magnificent delights. Diary, I'm sorry to cuckold you. I wouldn't have done it -- and wouldn't gladly continue to do it -- if it weren't so completely hot. ⊕

block

Friday, June 6

"We all sit around waiting for AOL to come up with 8.0, but we hardly ever walk the eight feet across a lobby to help someone who has slipped on a wet patch of linoleum." A great endless conversation about theatre, films, and commerce between Neil LaBute and Jon Robin Baitz. ⊕

Wing! Wing! Wing, my hero! ⊕

block

Thursday, June 5

Irony check-in: "There's going to be a seismic change. I think it's the end of the age of irony," pronounced Graydon Carter, editor of Vanity Fair... "Things that were considered fringe and frivolous are going to disappear." -- September 25th, 2001. Or, you know, maybe the complete opposite. ⊕

Astrological breakthrough: for years it was understood by me that I was a Scorpio with Gemini rising. During a two hour read last night by the inimitable Leslie, it turns out that there has been a misunderstanding. I am in fact a Scorpio with Scorpio rising. Shriek. Double shriek. I'm 31 years old and I have been living a total fucking lie.

Please revise your opinions of me to reflect this revelation. Evidently I am not perky, outgoing, and psychotic on the outside. I am dark and magnetic and critical. Surprise!

In other news, after a three-month wait, the Los Super Elegantes album Channelizing Paradise arrived in the mail yesterday. It is completely ridiculous and genius. Les Rita Mitsouko meets DJ Bobo's Chihuahua song with a little Chicks On Speed and Dog-Faced Hermans edge. It's the soundtrack to My Summer of Love 2003. Did I mention that I'm in love? I am, and you're even one of my love objects. Here, have an mp3 [Panadero, 4.3MB] and go buy their album! ⊕

block

Wednesday, June 4

It's a wee bit odd to go on a first date with someone whom you've already seen very naked. Okay, someone you've already touched very naked. Does it count as putting out on the first date if you've already slept with them, even if it was years ago? I think I'm off the hook: putting out tonight wouldn't make me a slut, right? I mean, he doesn't have to buy the cow, I already gave him the deed to the dairy farm ages ago. Or whatever.

Anyway. I am giddy with pre-date excitement. GIDDY! I may have to slap my freshly shaved, exfoliated, and moisturized face repeatedly. ⊕

The Great Scavenger Hunt is on in my house. My housecleaner called us after her tour of duty here at Ye Olde Slovenly Homestead yesterday morning. Evidently, her massive diamond popped out of the setting of her engagement ring some time yesterday. Perhaps somewhere, embedded in the spongiform nightmare of the surface of my apartment, her giant ice glistens like Frodo's ring. I can almost smell the free treasure in the nooks and crannies of my house. I hope this doesn't turn into some Panic Room kind of situation.

The question does remain: why does my housekeeper have such a big diamond? And why doesn't she take it off when she picks up my dirty boxers? And why is she always skiing in Aspen? ⊕

block

Tuesday, June 3

You read my mind, baby. Sexist double standards on the internet are alive and well. ⊕

Hi, my name's Choire, and, uh, I'm a cabaholic? Today's day five cab-free. Frankly, it's been easier than I thought it would be. Sure, while I'm stolidly walking the streets, I catch that flash of the white people reading their Wall Street Journals in their little yellow cabs, and I get a hard craving in the pit of my stomach. I keep walking, reminding myself that I'm thinner than they are. I'm a man of the streets now. I'm a streetwalker.

There's good news too. The subways are full of unexpected surprises, like the burly Latvian who subtly molested me from behind on the L train this morning. And also this wise graffito on an MTA poster advertising subway conductors for hire.

And in the streets, there are people I know everywhere! Just yesterday, as I was skanking down First Avenue to the dulcet tones of Ladytron, I ran into one of my best friends from high school, Ajay Naidu. We caught up right where we left off mmph-teen years ago. I remembered all those Evanston, Illinois nights, listening to LL Cool J and the Beastie Boys in his black speedmobile, drinking 40s and being badass. It's a delight to have him back in my life. My cab addiction has kept us apart for too long. I think maybe I'll make it after all. ⊕

block

Monday, June 2

Frankly, I'm craving violence. This afternoon I was having a little meditation atop a sand dune in the windstorm. (Seriously.) As one is wont to do at such a time, I had a realization: I want to kickbox. I want to be a martial artist. I want meditation and ascetism and starvation. And deprivation. And other -ations, but of course no hateration. But I want the breaking of wood planks with my head. I want self-defense and self-assuredness. And I want to punch people.

But I don't know where to start. Ideas? Thoughts? I'm not really interested in an escalating belt system, or trophies and shit, nor am I very interested in purchasing outfits, and I don't want to join a cult. I just want to sit cross-legged all day and then learn how to kick fuckers in the neck. From a place of peace, of course. If you have experience or recommendations in New York City, email me.
⊕

New writing here: Notes Toward a Constitution for Communal Beach Houses, a little bit of guidance from my vast store of experience in living with friends and strangers. I should like to dedicate this to housemates Jennie and Chad, and of course to others who for obvious reasons cannot be named. ⊕

block

Sunday, June 1

Art is an anti-destiny. A lovely history of the forgery of paintings, writing, and money. ⊕