Saturday, June 14Dr. Zizmor kicks some mad polysci.
Have you ever been: experienced, but for exactly who you are? so excited you couldn't sleep? in love with someone and therefore with everyone? absolutely unafraid? allayed of all doubt? Humans live with an unresolvable anxiety, an AM radio of pain and disarray. I am done with those regrets and anxieties and backwards niceties, done with the last dying interior transmissions of self-hate.
Once when I was 10 or so, my mother took me to a chiropractor. He did something to me, and afterwards I was ecstatic. It was night and I saw beautiful stars above the California parking lot. I was free from a pain I'd never known I suffered from. I didn't know it as pain, I thought it was just what having a body felt like. I haven't experienced exactly that feeling of sudden animal pure freedom again until just tonight. Word up to all young lovers and strivers and non-settlers. Fight the good fight, goodnight. ⊕
Friday, June 13Hey! My ex- baby's daddy Lance has a new website. Go enjoy. ⊕
Pledge to our customers: It has been brought to our attention that a week has passed with no breezily nasty stories about A) cabdrivers, B) smoking, C) stupid people in Manhattan, D) how awful Brooklyn is, and E) bad yoga experiences. We apologize for our topical deviations and promise A Return to Tradition next week (isn't it sweeps soon?). Frankly, we have been upset about new plotlines in the Martha/Rumsfeld/Hillary constructs of the military entertainment industrial complex this last week. We have been made extremely ill by it. Also, obviously, we are afloat in an extreme delightful romantic obsession. Also, Susan Sarandon nearly ran us down in her SUV yesterday (SUV = WWIII), topping off a truly surreal week.
It is hot and muggy and Augustey here and I never want to eat. (I look great.) I wake up every day at 6 a.m. and am too excited to go back to bed. Everything totally rocks. I do sometimes feel however like an exhausted molting prairie dog in a small child's basement cage; I suspect that the entire family is having a pow-wow in the rec room to decide What To Do With Poxdog (release it in the sewers! go wild in the jungle!). My house is a shambles. I am staying home this weekend to file CDs, take out the dry cleaning, recycle the crumpled Fresca cans, and empty the World Trade Center Memorial ashtrays (don't be alarmed, they were a gift). Next week: more shallow for you. Pinkie swear.
[N.B. For those special ladies and boymen who know how to flow, I have made you your sandwich. If it tastes bad spit it out. The evolved sandwiches aren't right for everyone.] ⊕
Thursday, June 12A Wednesday. Exterior of a quaint East Village restaurant. Night. Slightly rainy.
HOT BOY is giving CHOIRE a first date kiss quickly, boldly. There is some mutual molestation. This date has been literally years in the making. The daters tremble.
The next day. Cut to: interior, a messy artsy office. CHOIRE is writing an email to HOT BOY. "Thank you for last night. Would you like to go out on another date next Wednesday?" CHOIRE is a trained professional. He lights a cigarette lawlessly.
Long blackout. The following Monday. Cut to: same interior, artsy office, different light, different stubble on CHOIRE, who receives an email via his ghetto two-cans-and-a-string laptop. The invitation is declined, HOT BOY is busy Wednesday. Can he have CHOIRE's cell phone number? CHOIRE immediately agreeably replies with said number, and turns to the papers piled in his inbox with vigor.
Fade to: calendar pages clichédly flipping forward three days. Then fade to: CHOIRE's decrepit cellphone sitting silently not ever ringing on his manly desk. He is drinking from a gigantic bottle of water and writing the eighteenth in a long intense steamy intellectual ridiculous and sexy series of love letters to a different gentleman, who is incredible and dreamy and a genius. CHOIRE holds no grudge. He laughs out loud at the mysterious funsome ways of the world. He is totally snacking on Frito-Lay Funyuns.
FADE TACKILY TO WHITE. CREDITS.
⊕The next day. Cut to: interior, a messy artsy office. CHOIRE is writing an email to HOT BOY. "Thank you for last night. Would you like to go out on another date next Wednesday?" CHOIRE is a trained professional. He lights a cigarette lawlessly.
Long blackout. The following Monday. Cut to: same interior, artsy office, different light, different stubble on CHOIRE, who receives an email via his ghetto two-cans-and-a-string laptop. The invitation is declined, HOT BOY is busy Wednesday. Can he have CHOIRE's cell phone number? CHOIRE immediately agreeably replies with said number, and turns to the papers piled in his inbox with vigor.
Fade to: calendar pages clichédly flipping forward three days. Then fade to: CHOIRE's decrepit cellphone sitting silently not ever ringing on his manly desk. He is drinking from a gigantic bottle of water and writing the eighteenth in a long intense steamy intellectual ridiculous and sexy series of love letters to a different gentleman, who is incredible and dreamy and a genius. CHOIRE holds no grudge. He laughs out loud at the mysterious funsome ways of the world. He is totally snacking on Frito-Lay Funyuns.
FADE TACKILY TO WHITE. CREDITS.
Wednesday, June 11I've got site specificity. I've got plan "B" ability.
Then the rain returned to stay for days. We have now the almost-hot throw-the-comforter-on-the-floor nights. The sheets feel wet all the time. I sleep alone always, even the animals won't join me. This morning I am having a ginger-lemon tea to start my alimentary engines, the end of winter in my body. I still think of summer abstractly, like a song: "I... I love the colorful clothes you wear, and the way the sunlight plays upon your hair." In practice summer is always just around the corner, it never actually happens until one day you are naked in a green wave with tiny fish streaming in a darting endless line past you, summer only lasts an erotic half hour. When that's over I'm bereft, but at least I knew precisely when and where. (Like a birthday, the anticipation, the displeasure, the upset, the guests gone and feeling bloated and your brave face fails.) When I look back on my California childhood I never remember what year it was or what alleged season an event might have occurred. We are all children in a vast kindergarten, I'm selfish about the weather, go ahead and rain, at least over here in New York I know what season it was when I broke up with one or the other, quit that job, had that lingering illness, or, most importantly, gave up a stupid pig-headed idea for a better clean freedom. ⊕
Tuesday, June 10Ah. There is a reason for my not-richness this summer. I needed to be reminded of what it was like to move to New York City with no money and big saucer eyes. I really was a tiny tenacious dog. I went to any party anywhere, shoe store, book store, art store. I also needed to be reminded of living in San Francisco on 600 dollars a month. We made our own fun. We got in free because of our outrageous outfits. I am rolling up my change tonight. I'll go where I want to go by my own self-sufficient steam. When I was timid and young, Philo told me: you pretend that party is being held in your honor. It doesn't start until you show up. They're all waiting for you. Being afraid is cheating other people out of the value of your presence. And now we know that being adult-comfortable is its own trap. Go forth and party. I'm not wearing any underwear. I am very happy. I cannot find my toothbrush. Today is celebrate everything day. ⊕
Monday, June 9"PLEASE ALLOW ME TO ROCK YOU. IT IS MY PURPOSE." As my head is all deliriously romance-exploding, I heartily enjoyed this story of ten wooing bachelors. [via riley dog] ⊕
The first sunburn of the season.
I'm glazed like a ham. Don't l look stoned? I'm baked on the inside. I'm ocean-salty all over. I'd like to lick myself.Everyone is going to make fun of me tomorrow for my beet costume. ⊕
Sunday, June 8
ogic While my father and step-mother were off milking the goats on their farm on the grounds of the state mental hospital for the criminally insane, I would practice the logic exercises left to me for entertainment and education. Beneath my window in my part-time bedroom a massive mint bush sprawled; out past that was the barn where the food animals were slit open as they hung from hooks in their ankles, beyond that the sheep pasture, and then the 101 freeway. Staring out at that and beyond in the dry afternoons, I'd try to learn the order of the Greek alphabet and fail.
→ read the full story. [published june 8, 2003]
⊕
For those who have given up on punctuation, a lesson from a small airplane trailing a banner over the glorious beach.
Barbara, I ♥ you. Will you marry me? Bill.
Barbara: I ♥ you. Will: You marry me, Bill.
Into fun conflict we go as written language degrades. ⊕
Do you remember the old trains of Long Island? They were gray sooty things, infernally loud. The maroon seats were cracked and dozens of people would crowd in the vestibule between cars to smoke. We used to call the wildly speeding train to the Hamptons "the Anna Karenina Express." If you were tall like me, when it really got bouncing you'd hit your head on the roof. Going out east for a weekend, once you passed Babylon they'd leave the exit stairway doors wide open. I'd sit on the train's metal steps and dangle my feet out the train. I was young. I'd smoke pensively and watch the mysterious East Coast greenery fly by. ⊕
New here: Logic, a story about my father. ⊕
the xml feed is here, and if you really must, you can delve into the past here.
thanks for spending a moment with me. perhaps you'd enjoy seeing who i see:
my girl gang will totally cut you:
→blaise →elizabeth →jennie →jonno →lance →leslie →meg →philo
gangsters from the block:
→aaron →anil →ariel →ernie →faustus →lisa →lockhart →mom →nick →richard →steve
join me for a meeting in town hall:
→gothamist →the morning news →world new york
clock some mofos who can write:
→alison →bob →dana →dong resin →mary →matthew →michael →mimi →skot
about this site:
©2000-2003, choire sicha. i use blogger for posting automation. the rest is handcoded by my squirrels. i am hosted by kinetic medium. this page is validating css.
thanks for spending a moment with me. perhaps you'd enjoy seeing who i see:
my girl gang will totally cut you:
→blaise →elizabeth →jennie →jonno →lance →leslie →meg →philo
gangsters from the block:
→aaron →anil →ariel →ernie →faustus →lisa →lockhart →mom →nick →richard →steve
join me for a meeting in town hall:
→gothamist →the morning news →world new york
clock some mofos who can write:
→alison →bob →dana →dong resin →mary →matthew →michael →mimi →skot
about this site:
©2000-2003, choire sicha. i use blogger for posting automation. the rest is handcoded by my squirrels. i am hosted by kinetic medium. this page is validating css.
