Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 4: Dmitri Responds To Part 3)

So, it's interesting to be writing about someone who actually reads this journal on a regular basis. I have tweaked the order of when things happened during Dmitri's visit in order to make certain points, but otherwise, I'm trying to be as honest as I can about his visit. So I e-mailed Dmitri and asked what he thought of the last post. His response:

The old woman at the aquarium didn't say much of importance, it was all just facts about the sharks. The one dumbass woman was all "VY DON'T DE SHARKS JUST EAT EVERY-TING?" and the old woman explained how little the sharks eat or how they feed them and they usually just DON'T EAT AT ALL. God, how stupid. But then WE had the idea of listening intently so that we could go down to one of the floors and repeat everything as if we just HAPPENED to know everything there was about tiger sharks.

My criticism (of your last post)? Only one.

I HATED ROCKHOPPER PENGUINS THEY'RE AWFUL VILE AND TERRIBLE LITTLE BASTARDS! I do NOT like having a parallel made to such STUPID birds.

Their hair was TERRIBLE, the noise they made was ridiculous, they all took turns, but didn't go in any specific order, and there WAS a conflict. The one chick wanted to make her noise and this guy took her place so she started squabbling and making a big mess until she silenced the other guy. And THEN she didn't even go! What a bitch! I hate Rockhopper penguins and their little SOCIETIES.

haha, remember the one fucker rockhopper penguin that LEFT the rock with the others and stood with the other, quieter, better penguins? THE PENGUINS ON THE MAIN ROCK STILL RESPECTED HIS RIGHT TO MAKE NOISE DURING HIS OWN TURN.

and what the hell did i say about sharks and turtles?

Also: I fantasized about throwing one of the huge fish up in the air, letting it slam on the ground, and then stomping all over it to secure my dominion as Top of the Food Chain.

You also didn't say anything about GETTING LOST and having a taxi driver give you WRONG DIRECTIONS and you bringing it up in every conversation no matter the topic. DON'T GET ME WRONG, I thought it was cute how you fixated on things that bother you to the point where you can't talk about anything besides how annoyed you are at taxi drivers.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/113545.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 3: On The Inside Of The Glass)

If I were a gerbil, my water bottle would be filled with Cherry Coke. If [Data Embargo] Dmitri were a gerbil, he'd be doing commercial modeling for Habitrail. If I were a gerbil, and Dmitri were a gerbil, we could have the kind of hot, kinky gerbil sex that doesn't invoke the urban myth of Richard Gere and an Emergency Room visit.

I'm not a gerbil, and neither is Dmitri. We are two humans who met through Livejournal, decided to hang out in person, and decided that a trip to an art exhibit would be fun. we hadn't anticipated that said "art exhibit" would be inside a warehouse that gave off serious Freddy Kreuger vibes. But there we were, on the wrong side of a swinging door. On our side of the door: wood chips, a fake hanging water bottle, large fake gerbil turds, a bowl full of water, another bowl full of stale crullers that were supposed to look like gerbil food, no other door, and the windows were barred. On the other side of the door, ominously approaching footsteps. Footsteps that never materialized into another human being.

During our moment of fear, I should have wrapped my arms protectively around Dmitri and maybe kissed him. I didn't. The two of us just sort of wandered around the giant cage making jokes about how bizarre it was that this exhibit was held inside a seemingly abandoned warehouse.

While I kicked fake turds, Dmitri swung on the giant bird swing, the only part of the exhibit that was out of place with the whole Gerbil Cage Mystique. I've owned several gerbils in my day, and never bought a trapeze swing for any of them. Gerbils would make shitty acrobats.

From the lifesize gerbil cage, we made our way to The New England Aquarium. We were supposed to meet Zuzu there in the early afternoon, but like just about all my friends that I'd made plans with during Dmitri's visit, she failed to show. So we went in without her. On our way in, our photograph was taken. I would have liked a photograph of the time we spent together, but their photo looked like shit, I hated my hair, and they wanted like a bazillion bucks for a cheap ass picture that we hadn't been prepared for.

After making our way through the jellyfish exhibit, where Dmitri proved his skillz at video games by defeating a jellyfish game designed for six year olds, we arrived at The Giant Ocean Tank. As we circled the tank, Dmitri said some rather insightful things about sharks and giant turtles before jumping back about five feet and letting out a rather loud "Oh, gross!"

I imagined that if I looked hard enough, I'd see an amputated bloody hand floating in the tank. Then, I remembered how Dmitri felt about other human beings, and realized he'd be overjoyed to see that the Aquarium was feeding human beings to the fish. "What is it?" I asked.

"That fish. It's so huge and ugly. I hate giant things." I made a mental note not to show him my penis, then I made another mental note that I didn't have a giant penis, and we would both be safe should penis presentation time ever arrive.

At the top of the tank, an old lady was telling a young mom and her brood something interesting about sharks that I fully intended to remember and write about, but the goldfish part of my brain has since vanquished. Dmitri and I discussed how unhungry he was after the traumatizing giant fish situation, and headed back down around the tanks to check out The Penguin Pool.

For those of you just joining this journal, I love penguins so much, I am tempted to write I <3 Rockhoppers the most. Maybe it's the punk rock hair, maybe it's the way they honk for attention, I don't know. But it was at The Rockhopper exhibits that I had my first revelation concerning my feelings for Dmitri. Rockhoppers are incredibly territorial, and, while sociable, don't appear to be overly friendly. While we watched, one of the aquarium employees was moving around the pool doing something scientific. The Rockhoppers were taking turns honking at him. One would spend ten seconds "singing", then another would begin. There was never any overlap in the honking, and there as rarely a second between one penguin's honking and another. They were cute, obnoxious, and loud. Like Elvis. Like Alex. Like Dmitri. Nothing at all like MAMIP or Liam or Ryan; they were Magellanics.

I thought I'd passed through my Rockhopper phase, now preferring a less needy guy who loved me more than the attention I lavished on him.

Don't get me wrong, I am not and was not in love with Dmitri. I love his writing, the way he thinks, the way he blows into his own ear with a bendy straw when I accidentally stop paying attention to him for ten seconds while Clitty asks me a question. I think he is mentally and physically amazingly beautiful, but I wasn't in love with him. I was just terrified by how easily I could have been in love with him if the scenario was a little different: say, we lived in the same city, or if I wasn't spending so much of his visit brooding over my irresponsible friends, or if he didn't have a boyfriend. I may be a naive, lust hungry, easy target for falling in love, but I have enough self-control to never allow myself to be in love with someone who is in a relationship already.

"He's not your type." Clitty said well after Dmitri had left Boston.

"What is my type?" I asked in my vaguely annoyed tone of voice.

"I don't know. He's so Young. Don't get me wrong, he's adorable, and really sweet, but don't you think you'd be happier with someone older?" This from the thirty-eight year old, currently lusting after eighteen year old breakdancers.

"He doesn't write like he's Young. And, I mean, he does act Young, but he's so self-aware. I act Young all the time. It's what keeps me from being a depressed misanthrope like you."

Wisely, the topic of conversation changed at that point.

So what if he was is seven years and seventeen days younger than I am? He's...not available, so why bother finishing that particular line of logic?

"Do you want to go dancing?" He asked me, the night after our gerbil excursion.

The answer was Yes. I've never been a club kid, never spent much time at Manray or any of the clubs in Provincetown, but I've always secretly wanted to go, and now I had the opportunity to be guest listed at a club where I could dance with an insanely hot, nerdy, meglaphobic gay crush. So why didn't I go?

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/113357.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 2: Claiming Dmitri's Baggage)

Dmitri wears Diesel shoes. His shoes match his outfits flawlessly. Not in that pink shirt, pink sweatpants, pink shoes sort of way. His outfits are often from different stores, are different colors, and different styles, but they are, unquestionably, matching styles. They're unquestionably hot.

Having left a majority of my clothes in Pieceofshitdeserttown, my outfits are uhh...well, not outfits. And my shoes? During the last snowstorm my shoes got the toes kicked out of them. My feet didn't actually stick out of the toes, but I did look like a homeless person from the ankles down. I wasn't completely aware of this until I was actually on my way into Logan airport to pick Dmitri up. What I did know was that one of my many unreliable friends had flaked out and, as a result, my hair cut had never happened. I was a long-haired, homeless shoed freak in a non-matching outfit when I arrived at Logan. Late.

I buzzarded around Baggage Claim and the arrival gates about four times. His flight arrived at 10:45, and I had arrived at Logan at 10:47. I am tempted to blame this one Unreliable Friend #1, but I should have known that she wasn't going to show up or even bother to call me to let me know she wasn't going to show up, because she is one of my friends, and as I have learned this week, my friends are unreliable. If they say they're going to meet me somewhere at 6:30, they may or may not be there by 8:00, and odds are, they won't call to let me know they're running behind. I've been moderately aware of this for a few years now. In fact, I've caught some of their unreliableness. This is what happens when you belong to a community of people who advertise events starting at 7:30, but don't actually show up until 9:00.

I was cursing Unreliable Friend #1 for not giving me a ride to Logan (she was catching a flight there an hour after I was to pick up Dmitri, so I wasn't asking her to go out of her way) while I buzzarded. I was on pass number five, when I turned around. Dmitri was behind me. Apparently, he'd been following me for a turn or two. I'll probably want to kick myself for using Elvis's word, but the only thing I can think of to describe Dmitri is kyoooooot.

We took a bus, then the T, then a bus back to my place. Most of the trip home we followed/were followed by The Man in The Red Jacket. a mysterious stranger who had apparently been staring at Dmitri from the time he left Chicago. Creeeeeeepy. We ended up losing him when I got on the train going in the wrong direction. He did not follow us when we got off, and switched to a train going the right way.

Once Dmitri was unpacked, we went out for Indian food. On our trek to the restaurant , Dmitri began his one man show. I don't want to bore you with all the details, but I'm going to. When he was done berating me for not bringing a granola bar with me when I met him at the airport, he began making fun of my shoes. He then made several attempts to kick pigeons who had the misfortune to cross his path. When I crossed the street at places that were clearly not crosswalks, he let out a high pitched squeal, and ran across the street like a Muppet with its fur on fire. If he hadn't told me about his Mutually Exclusive Hookup Partner, I would have taken him right there in the street.

Our conversations deserve a post of their own, a la Drunken Conversations at Hampshire College. Dmitri is easily the Most Interesting Conversationalist I've ever met. He talks in and out of Gay so effortlessly, unlike most of our contemporaries. While Dmitri was on his cell, chatting with a Gay friend about dancing plans, I was on the phone with the guy who created the PE(s)T exhibit, a giant gerbil cage. The person sounded incredibly Gay. He expressed an interest in being at the exhibit when Dmitri and I arrived. I imagined him spending an infinite amount of time explaining"his vision" and the "metaphorical ramifications of a gigantic gerbil cage". This was not something I looked forward to.

Dmitri and I were discussing how Gay our phone partners had sounded when we arrived at the address of the exhibit. It didn't look like any art gallery I'd ever seen. In fact, it looked like exactly like the sort of vacant warehouse where serial killers rape, torture, and kill young art patrons and grind their bodies and incorporate them in their next "project". I sensed we would be the basis for an upcoming "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit". Dmitri vocally agreed with my inner-monologue, as we opened the heavy wooden door that led into the obvious trap art gallery. The stairway was filled with face shots of all the other unsuspecting people murdered on their way into the gallery.

Over the phone, The Artiste had said that his exhibit was on the third floor, the sign said it was on the fourth floor. I made the mistake of believing the artist over the sign (I spend lots of time with artists, I should have known to follow the sign), and Dmitri and I got out at the third floor. Someone in one of the little cubicles was either pureeing a human flesh smoothie, or vacuuming up the clues from the last murder. We quietly returned to the staircase and made our way to the fourth floor.

At the end of the long hallway was a set of bars that could only signify a gigantic gerbil cage, the place you lock up prisoners, or both.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/106397.html

Opening A Bottle Rocket With Your Teeth (Part 1: A Bundle Of Nerves)

Like most members of the animal kingdom, I am a bundle of nerves. Strike the right one, and I'm yours.

So far in my sensual history, I've fallen in LOVE with three people: Ryan, MAMIP & Liam. All of them sweet, and willing to do almost anything for anyone. One was straight and easily spooked, one gay and easily spooked, the other, completely unable to cope with his sexuality. But love is so overrated.

The guys I fall in LUST with get on my fucken nerves. In our first conversation, Elvis's voice was like a cat in heat being rubbed claws down on a chalkboard made of aluminum. Of course, I was Demoraled out of my mind, at the time, so I invited him to fly up and visit me. Worse, I spent money I didn't have buying his ticket.

Just about every guy I've found hot is either a spaz, a compulsive liar, a dingleberry or a user. Dmitri doesn't appear to be any of these. Annoying? Well, yea, but in SUCH a HOT way. The sort of annoying you want to get up real close to and kiss, and throttle so that the annoying tongue slides into your mouth.

I haven't been this nervous in quite a while. In six hours, I head over to my friend Cali's for a haircut. I'll give her a couple of books to take to one of my friends in Ireland, and then we'll drive to the airport, where she'll be heading off to Europe, and I'll be meeting Dmitri and taking him home.

Yep, for the first time since Elvis, someone is coming from out of state to spend time with me. Unlike Elvis, however, this is a very short term platonic visit. Three days, two nights.

So why am I so nervous?

I really like Dmitri. He's funny, smart, hot, and while he's not A WRITER, he happens to be a very talented writer. Much more talented than most of the "writers" that I know. He's also cruel, needy, and sarcastic. Three attributes which, against my better judgment, are HUGE turn ons for me.

So, in the week since I've known he was coming, I've been calmly trying to thing of fun things we can do on my...ahem...extremely limited budget. I've also been leisurely getting my room organized, and attempting to not freak out Dmitri, who is also a bundle of nerves. For the first few days, I successfully remained unfreakedout. Then my computer crashed. Then my TV crashed into my computer. Yesterday, I walked a mile into the evil sleet storm that hit Boston. The sleet was so hard, the discman I was holding was skipping. Today, on my way to work, I missed the bus I was aiming for, but the bus didn't miss me, slamming a HUGE puddle of slush first on my left side prompting me to say "Ohhhh gross." which allowed my mouth to be open just wide and long enough to get a mouth full of yummy Somerville slush. These are all wonderful signs.

So now, I'm in freak out mode. Straight Roommate leaves for Kaleeeeefornya in four hours, so he's hogging the washing machine, so I can't even finish my laundry. I tried doing it yesterday, but Landlord was doing his. The day before? Straight Roommate. Fuckers. I was going to borrow Zuzu's car to do the Logan run, but it won't start. I left my tips at work. The first time I wrote this entry, I tripped over the power cord and....yea.

I'm hoping that I get all this bad luck out of my system BEFORE Cali starts cutting my hair. I'm also hoping that Straight Roommate gets off the phone soon, so Dmitri can call. Right now, he's really getting on my last nerve.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/105938.html

Penguin Lust, Unrevisited

There's no conceivable reason why ACDC's "For Those About to Rock (We Salute You" is stuck in my head. No one around me recently has sung or referenced that song, no one has rocked (or appeared about to), and I have not seen someone salute anyone since I shaved off my Hitler mustache in the mid nineties (I'm kidding, I'd never shave off my Hitler mustache...I mean, I've never had a Hitler mustache).

All week long, the wrong things have been popping into my head: that horribly catchy Maroon 5 single, Manamana, the word "phlebotomy". At work, a softspoken man was trying to order a raisin scone, and I kept hearing him say "bra strap, bra strap, bra strap" over and over.

The crazy quotient in my life keeps escalating. My mother called last week to tell me she heard an ad for a job on the radio that would be perfect for me: bag checker at Logan airport. When I tell her that I'm not the least bit interested, she asks if I'm content to bag groceries for the rest of my life. I've never worked in a grocery store in my life, but now I'm considering it just because I think she's prejudiced against supermarket clerks.

Yesterday, she called and asked if she could visit on Saturday. Just as she hung up, Zuzu called and suggested driving to New York City on Saturday to see a poetry event. When I reminded her that Dmitri is going to be in town on Saturday, and that he might not want to spend ten hours of his visit in a car, I realized that the real issue was that I didn't want to be trapped in a car for ten hours with Zuzu, Dmitri, and Zuzu's latest "boy toy", a guy who, within the first five minutes of my first conversation with him, brought up both how easy it is to murder someone AND how complicated his life has been since he was released from the mental institution.

Today I received an e-mail from someone saying that they were removing me from their friends list because I mentioned in an entry that I don't like cunnilingus. If you've read enough of my journal to decide to add me as a friend, and you don't realize that I'm not going to be a huge proponent of cunnilingus, I just don't know what to say except: "Penguin lust."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/105323.html

Craisins

Tonight's fortune cookie (What? It's left over from last night. It's not like fortune cookies aren't already stale.)...so...tonight's fortune cookie says "Although it feels like a roller coaster now, life will calm down."

Oddly enough, tonight's fortune cookie, despite being from the same place, is a different color than last night's, and this one doesn't have any Chinese translations on it (last night's informed me that the chinese word "tang" means "sugar").

But, back to the fortune. I'm not sure I want my life to calm down. Ok, I don't ever plan on doing anything like a Foam Party again, and I doubt I'll ever meet another guy via a dating site, but I do have a friend visiting from out of town, and I'd hate for him to be bored. Don't get me wrong, I don't anticipate the visit being anything you're going to read about (unless he brings penguins, then I'll be erecting a monument in his honor [author's note: this is the first time in the history of this journal that "erect" has been used in a non-sexual manner]).

But, back to roller coasters. Apparently, when I was a kid, I used to love rollercoasters. At some point, one of those amusement park staples made me puke. And since then, no roller coasters for me. When I was nine or ten, my parents tricked me into going on "Thunderbolt Mountain" at Disney World. Man, they paid for that. I cried like a fashonista at a Phish concert.

Eventually I learned to appreciate fast, non-rollercoaster rides. I've gone white water rafting a few times, and I don't even want to contemplate how many tickets I've spent on The Gravitron at various fairs. But I hate fucken roller coasters. So if my life is a roller coaster, well...maybe a change is in order.

But, back to not boring people. I've discovered the ultimate conversation killer: craisins. Any time you're talking with a hot guy and you want to cause an uncomfortable silence, just mention the word "craisin". It's definitely going to be my safe word if I ever do any bondage play, which I'm never going to do, because I'm boring.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/103827.html

Smiles

Tonight's fortune cookie says "A smile is your personal welcome mat."

Now you know why I sit on so many guys' faces.

(insert rimshot here...no rimjob jokes please)

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/103315.html

Suds, Studs, And The Kindest Buds

The invitation said "Sunday night suds and studs party. Call Jack for more information."

I was intrigued. I assumed (wrongly, of course), that a s&s party was some sort of beer thing; hot guys with Harpoons and Amber Bocks. Hot guys in skimpy clothing would be walking around with a variety of specialty beers, flirting with the ugly queens in order to get them to buy more beer.

I hate beer. I don't particularly like ugly queens, or false flirtations from hot guys in skimpy suits and bowties. Still, I called the number on the invitation and asked to speak with Jack.

Jack explained how wrong I was about a suds and studs party. He had rented a gym after hours. At 2 AM, any guy with an invitation and the special password can come into the gym. They are to head immediately to the locker room, where they take off all their clothes, and have their "bikini area" covered in foam.

The foamer, surprise surprise, was a hot Brazilian kid with a bikini that revealed that he either had an enormous cock, or he had stuffed his suit with a Beanie Baby. I had little doubt, looking around the locker room, that Gilmar would be the hottest guy I'd see all night, and he wouldn't be going home with me. But I'd already decided that I wouldn't be going home with anybody.

"How about I just play doorman?" I asked Jack.

A disparaging term for female genitalia was muttered in my general direction. It wasn't the first time, I'm sure it won't be the last.

I watched the various entrants get sudsed and make their way to the shower area. All the partitions had been taken down, creating the perfect Nazi gas chamber ambiance. Well, it would have been the perfect Nazi gas chamber ambiance had the room been full of anorexic men and children. However, the room was filled mostly with grizzlies and orcas. Clearly, I was not the only person in the room without a legitimate gym membership.

Remember, I like chubby guys as much as I like slimmish guys, and I'm not completely averse to obese guys, but I felt really uncomfortable being both the youngest, and one of the most in-shape guys. I should never be the hottest guy at a party. It's a position I've never held in my life, and have never wanted to hold. After all, being the hottest guy in any given situation would mean that there really aren't any hot people at the party. I'd much rather be the most Interesting guy at the party, or the least likely to be molested by a creepy stranger covered in foam.

I was so glad I didn't have to pay the forty dollar cover charge to get in. Jack had invited me for the experience and waived the entrance fee, under the conditions that I write about it, but not give either his name, or the name of the gym we used. He was also kind enough to give me Gilmar's e-mail address. Jack is now my favorite fag in the world. Well, except perhaps for Gilmar or Dmitri. What can I say, I'm fickle.

"You want to go out and smoke?" Gilmar asked.

"I don't smoke." Haven't smoked a cigarette in three years.

"Not a cigarette." He smiled. And with a smile like that, I would have gone out and smoked a cigarette with him. But he didn't want to smoke a cigarette. So what then, crack? Pot? I haven't lit anything on fire and stuck it in my mouth since I lived in Pieceofshitdeserttown. "Some cock."

I've never lit cock on fire period. Well, maybe with friction.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm kidding." He smiled again. Bastard. "I don't think I've seen you at one of Jack's parties before. Are you one of his boys?"

Boys? I'm not a boy anymore. I reverse Pinnochioed years ago. "No. He uhhh...he knows me through my writing."

"Oh. So are you..." Single? Famous? Sporting an erection? "gay?"

"Yea."

I'm gonna be picked up by the hot guy. I'm gonna be picked up by the hot guy. I'm gonna--

"Cool. Every other guy I've met at these parties is some skeezy old guy who looks at me like a piece of meat." Hey, I didn't write his material. If he wants to speak in cliche, it's his right as a hot human being.

The bottom line is, Gilmar has only been in Boston for two months (he's from the exotic world of Barnstable, Massachusetts, proving that the world I live in is entirely too small..send in the Disney animatronics), and wants a gay friend with no romantic interest to show him around Boston. I'm gonna be the platonic friend of the hot guy. I'm gonna be the platonic...wow, that's not nearly as fun to say. Maybe the rhythm is off.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/102827.html

Jalapeno Vagina

This morning at work, one of my coworkers brought me a gift: Mexican candy. How sweet, I thought. How fucken wrong I was.

Has anyone on this list ever had Mexican candy before? I've had Australian candy, Austrian candy, Brazilian candy, British candy, Canadian candy, Chinese candy, French candy, German candy, Italian candy, Nigerian candy, Swazi candy, Swiss candy, and Taiwanese candy. Some I liked (Swiss chocolate...mmmmm), some I wasn't particularly fond of (toffee is...ehhh), but all was easily identifiable as candy. The four objects that were presented to me as Mexican candy was a textural and flavorful affront to God.

I don't know what the hard chunk of rock in the center of my "candy" was, but it was covered in a squishy layer of CHILE POWDER. Let me repeat, the "candy" that I was given was covered, not in sweet sugar or whatever it is that makes sour worms sour, but CHILE FUCKEN POWDER.

It would be rude of me to spit out the candy I was given as a gift, however, as the gift giver was quick to point out, my eyes were watering. I was also on the brink of puking. Seriously, I haven't gagged that hard since I blew the hippie with the nine incher and the gallon of patchouli he used in lieu of showering.

"Why does everyone gag on my candy?" She asked. "Is good, no?"

No. Is not good. Is very very bad. And the mango lollipop that she gave me should have been good. I love mango. Candied mango is one of my favorite snacks in the world, but candied mango is covered in sugar, while this...lollipop?...was covered in...yeup, Chili fucken powder.

The flavor was so intensely awful that I started to hallucinate. I envisioned a troop of hot Mexican men that I'd wronged handcuffing me, and forcing me to give cunnilingus to a stank woman with a chili powder covered vagina.

It took a whole gallon of Cherry Coke, and a few hours of intense therapy to get the flavor out of my mouth.

E-Balls To You, Dingleberry

I believe the term "I don't give a shit" comes from the way hate constipates people. I've written at least seven different journal entries tonight that I couldn't finish because I was writing from a place of anger. Each word popping the pimple of the huge ass that incited this seething.

No, that's not right. I like asses, and this person is definitely not something I like. He's not an ass, he's not a cock, he's not even a douchebag or a skidmark, he's a dingleberry: that little piece of lint and shit that sticks in a crack of what may otherwise be a nice piece of ass. Who cares about some scenester hanger-on-er who wants to instigate worthless confrontation? I shouldn't let something so insignificant piss me off. The next time someone mentions said dingleberry and what that dingleberry may or may not have said about me, I will smile and nod and busy myself thinking of something worthier of my time: amateur curling, the dietary habits of banana slugs, collecting Pez dispensers. Every time I have the urge to make a retort about what a talentless waste of sperm said dingleberry is I shall say only: Penguin Lust.

Everyone has their foils: Brain has his Snowball; sarchal has his Tony, The Idiot; cyns has his goths. Mine is a goth, as well. The sort of Goth who not only wears all black, but owns a scorpion, several pacifiers, and glow sticks. He lives for misguided confrontation. He's got the Livejournal full of stories about how the government is all mean and shadowy, and how he should be running the country. But really, he's just a coke addict from a rich family who has delusions of grandeur, and we already have one of those in the White House.

I'm sorry, what I meant to say was Penguin Lust.

I'm tired of reading things written by people with e-balls. The people who, a generation ago, wrote angry letters to the editor about how the kids these days don't understand the importance of seatbelt safety. These days, every one of these ultracrepidarianistic dingleberries has their own blog that they use to vent their frustration, and they take every "attaboy" directed their way by another delusional dingleberry as justification that they're right thinking, and.... Why are you all looking at me like that?

Penguin Lust.

I should be flattered that that dingleberry called me an asshole. I think assholes are hot. And maybe I am an asshole. After all, you are what you eat.

Penguin Lust.

Tomorrow afternoon, while said dingleberry is at his high paying, but admittedly high-stress job, getting frustrated because his life is just sooooooo hard, I'll be smiling and passing espressos to the same people that piss him the hell off. People who are angry at life, who don't know how to perform simple tasks so they take out their frustration on customer service people like me and the dingleberry.

But, you know what, they don't take out their frustration on me, because I'm not some ball of rage looking for any excuse in the world to have an argument, or write some shitty "poem" about how corporations are baaaaaad, or Dick Cheney is eeeeeeevil. Yawn.

People are generally nice to me because I've finally reached the Zen of Not Caring What Dingleberries Think. Non-dingleberries can tell that I'm not just smiling at them, but with them. And dingleberries know that while they can get my adrenaline rushing for a minute or two, in the end, I'll just laugh them off because...Penguin Lust.

I've wasted too much time on this. While I wrote this snarky entry, I could have been doing something more enjoyable like clipping my toenails, or writing a musical about foosball rage, based on the wit and wisdom of Anne Coultier. I shall devote no more time to this.

I'm sitting on my comfortable bed, listening to the soothing sounds of a cat being raped by a carpenter's belt full of nails on chalkboards. It's snowing outside, but I feel warmer than I ever felt when I lived in Pieceofshitdeserttown. I want to go outside and roll in the snow, bask in the glow of Penguin Lust.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/101765.html

I'm Just Crazy About This Entry

Now, don't get me wrong, I obviously have a thing for crazy guys. Crazy people are often the best lovers full contact contortionists in the world. Sure, sometimes you wake up with your face covered in Saran Wrap while your significant other the person you should have filed a restraining order against pours gasoline over your genitals and starts giving you an intense handjob, but sometimes they order pizza for you and spend six hours bleaching your bathroom; you've got to learn to take the bad with the good.

For example, I have this friend former roommate, who, for his anonymity's sake, we will call Crazy Fucken Florencio. When he wasn't drinking all my alcohol, stealing change out of my pants pockets, running up an $800 phone bill to Brazil, and "accidentally" smashing the dining room table in half, he was a fun guy to have around (anyone making a mushroom joke will have their nipples burned off with patchouli scented incense sticks).

On one occasion, one of the ex-girlfriends who hadn't accused him of rape was hanging out at our house, swapping Florencio stories with us. At this point, Florencio's body had yet to be discovered hog tied, naked, and ass-end up a Church basement in Mission Hill.

Ex-girlfriend had mentioned what an amazing lay fuck Florencio was (he certainly didn't do the laying thing). Apparently he had a huge cock, and the stamina of hummingbird on Cocaine and Espresso enhanced Jolt Cola. He was the best she had ever had. So why did they break up?

At three a.m. on some random ass day, ex-girlfriend woke up to find Florencio, wearing nothing but wide eyes and a bandanna over his nose and mouth, with a samurai sword, a REAL fucken samurai sword inches away from her throat. Somehow, she managed to talk him into putting the sword down so they could fuck. Once the sword was down, she kicked him square in the nuts, ran to the bathroom and called 911.

Of course, she STILL hangs out with him, so I don't know what that says about her (except, perhaps that she likes church basements).

File him under The Sort of Crazy I Won't Stick My Dick In. Harvard guy falls in that category, too. After he was done lecturing me on slam poetry (because, you know, I don't know anything about it myself, having only been in the slam poetry scene for seven years now), and trying to impress me by aligning himself with trendy authors who I don't read, he proceeded to have an awkward confrontation with the door man at the venue I frequent.

The doorman accused him of trying to sneak in. Apparently, last week, Harvard had gone in without paying, and the doorman had tracked him down, and he'd paid. This week, Harvard came in and started talking to me at the bar while the doorman was taking someone else's money. When the doorman came over and asked for the money, Harvard explained that didn't plan on staying, that he just wanted to talk to me for a few minutes. The doormen said that was okay, but in the future, he had to pay as soon as he came in. THEN, probably because he noticed that I seemed fairly embarrassed, and had started trying to make eye contact with any of my friends who were busy trying to give me and Mr. Harvard alone time, he changed his tune. He was going to stay, and he had every intention of paying, but the doorman hadn't made it clear that he was the doorman, and...well, Harvard could have made an honest mistake, and thought that, because the doorman had gone around to him and asked him for money the previous week, that the doorman always collected the money that way. BUT, Harvard spent over ten minutes arguing with doorman about how doorman didn't understand where he was coming from, and trying to connect with him on an "I used to have a crappy job too" level. All I could think of was "Shut the fuck up, pay him the five bucks and move on. Or, go home."

I need to find the right balance of crazy in a man. Someone who doesn't feel the need for people to "identify with them". Someone who will wear their idiosynchricities like a bad toupee, who owns more faults than self-help books. Someone who realizes the "You never forget the people you hurt when you're high" ad campaign is funny because the more drugs you do, the more apt you are to forget ever having hurt anyone to begin with. Someone who is crazy for me.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/101139.html

Doo Doooo D'Doo Doo

The radio where I work is really adept at playing static. Pop static, bluegrass static, math rock static, it runs the gambit. I'd prefer to keep the damned thing off, and rock out to the music in my head, but this week, The Catchiest Song in The World has been stuck in my head.

If you're not old enough to remember the old Muppets sketch (which is not the original time The Muppets sang that song...it goes back past the Red Skelton era...which is waaaay before my time), you've probably seen the Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper Commercial. Damn that song.

All day long at work, people word order Banana Nut Muffins, and since "Banana Nut" has the same rhythm as "Manamana", I'd sing "doo doooo d'doo doo/Banana nut!/Doo doo doo dooo/Banana Nut!" until I was forced to pour scalding hot espresso down my pants and slam my head in a cabinet. Still, the song would not go away. It got to the point where I actually hid the muffins to avoid people saying "Banana nut". Naturally, this plan didn't work.

Random customer: "Where are your banana nut--"
Me: "Doo doooo d'doo doo"
Random customer: "--muffins? Are you ok? Why are you slamming your head in a cabinet?"
Me: "Banana nut!"

I shall be fired before the end of next week.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/100392.html

The Real Catty World (Part 6: Three Half Naked Chinese Boys)

I would like to apologize to The American Public for the current blizzard situation. It's my fault. In September 2000, I moved to Burlington, Vermont, where I spent some time hanging out with my friends, Dagster and The Soggy Blind Lesbian (they have real names, but they're intimidated by my other friends' cool monikers). 2000/2001 was the snowiest winter in Vermont in 50 years. On December 26th, the three of us had a reunion, and sure enough it was a disgusting snow muck in Boston. Last Sunday, Dagster and I made pizza and went out to a poetry slam. It snowed. Today, I passed her on my way for a brief visit with my mother on The Cape. I'll be lucky to get out of here by Monday.

Thus far, it's been an eventful 2005. The new apartment...the new aprtment...Dear God, the new apartment.

The day after Christmas, my Dad dropped me off at the ferry (with an er, not an ai, wise-asses), and I headed into Boston to have dinner with the aforementioned Dagster and SBL. On my way, I decided to stop at my new apartment and put my luggage in my room, so as not to drag hundreds of pounds of suitcases around in the freezing snow. Now, I know Boston pretty well. I'm fairly new to Slummerville, but I know I live off Broadway, so when I get off the T and see a bus that says "via Broadway", I get on it. For whatever reason the "via Broadway" bus does not run via Broadway. So I had to ride it all the way back to the T station, and then walk the mile or so home. I was not inhappymode.

Now, those of you regular readers might think what happens next would be something of an enjoyment for me; a late Christmas present from the God of Twisted Whores: I opened the door to my new apartment, a room I'd set up with all my belongings, a bed I'd slept in twice, and what do I find? Three half-naked Chinese boys. The room is filled with suitcases that I don't remember owning, and there are three half naked Chinese strangers sleeping in my goddamned bed. Did I strip off my clothes and join them? Take off my shoe and beat them until they ran screaming out into the snow? Read them the advanced copy of the Are We There Yet? screenplay until they beat each other to death with my industrial sized stapler? No. I calmly closed the door to my room, and had a bit of a "what the fuck?" session with The Landlord. The crazy assed, what the hell was I thinking moving into this place Landlord. Oh, right, I was thinking "Food is included in the rent." Unfortunately, sanity, privacy, and a healthy sense of personal boundaries were not.

Having griped out some of my stress, I head into town to meet Dagster and SBL. About halfway there, I get a phone call from SBL, Dagster and she have been in a minor car accident (I told Dagster she should have let the blindie drive). They are fine, but are freaked out about the snowy driving conditions, so they go to Dagster's house, which is also in Slummerville. I go to The Lizard Lounge for poetry. I am one of five people including the real host, and the bartender that is stupid enough to go out for poetry during a snowstorm. We drink free drinks, and I catch a cab Chez Dagster.

By the time I get home, it is the 27th, and the Chinese Boys are barricaded in another room. Apparently, the pill popping gay roommate sat on one of their faces at three o'clock in the morning, so they decided to move into an empty room, and put a desk in front of the door so he couldn't get in. My room no longer shows evidence of anything Chinese, not even General Tso's Chicken.

The Chinese boys (who are mildly hot, but a tad on the rich and clueless side for me) head out to New York, leaving me, Landlord and Pill Popper. Pill Popper regales me with tales of his youth on Cape Cod. He repeatedly refers to me as Michael, Jonathan, and occasionally Frank; never by my proper name. He goes into vast details about all the clubs he used to go to on The Cape. Unfortunately for him, I actually did grow up on The Cape, and know that every story he tells me is complete and utter bullshit. Fairy fantasy tales. Meanwhile, The Landlord has adopted a Korean houseboy.

Korean houseboy won't let me do my own dishes, won't let me cook my own food, and gets in the habit of interrupting "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" to ask me questions about American culture. He has a fetish for "silver hairs." Hence, he is fucking my Landlord, though he is about five years younger than me, and Landlord is thirty years older. I try and stay out of the house as much as possible. New Year's Eve Eve, I am rescued from the madhouse by my friend, Celeste, and her ultra-cool roommate. We eat pizza and play arcade games at The Good Times Emporium. I even beat a straight boy at air hockey.

Actual New Year's Eve, I move my stuff into my new new room; a refinished attic with all sorts of cool angles, and closet space for all my friends who can't deal with their sexual orientation. I set up my bookcase and my laptop, and mourn the fact that my computer isn't equipped for wireless Internet yet.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/95840.html

The Real Catty World (Part 5: Random Notes)

Back in the days of dorm rooms and keggers, when naked Colombians wandered the halls trolling for horny Insafemodes; back when straight roommates didn't want their in the closet but probably obviously gay roommates to walk in them during "special time" (generally third period); back when third period was a time for Latin Class, and did not mean you were dating a twelve year old girl; back when you just didn't feel like blowing the kid across the hall or helping him with his remedial math; back then there was a system. Each door had a crudely drawn map or a piece of construction paper with notes such as "In the room studying, do not disturb", "Decided to find out what my French teacher looked like...am actually at class", "Hockey practice" and other possibilities for where people were and what they were doing. This way you didn't have to waste your time knocking on the cute boy's door, begging for his sweet ass, because you knew he was rehearsing for some play that probably involved him wearing tights. This meant you had to go to your room and put a pin in the "Do Not Disturb" area of your map in order to go masturbate to the thought of the cute boy in tights.

I look back fondly on those times. Especially when I think of Fledge in tights.

Looking back on them fondly, however, does not mean I want to relive them. So when The Landlord casually mentioned that he'd like me to leave notes letting him know whether or not I was home, and where I would be if I wasn't home, I gave him the Spock eye. Apparently, I'm so quiet, that he's never certain if I'm home and if he'll disturb me. I pointed out that if I was disturbed I would cease to be quiet, come out of my room and say something. Still, he wanted the notes.

I debated using Post-It Notes and making various "In" "Out" "None of your fucken business, what are you a stalker?" statements for various occasions. I even debated carving the word here into the door with a question mark after it. There's your note, bucko.

I was just about to go out and buy a stack of Post-It Notes when I remembered the old map system. ten points I could possibly be at, one pin. Here's what I came up with:

"Doing lines off a whore's ass. Please knock before entering. BYOC."

"The moaning you hear is just a TV show I'm watching. What sounds like a squeaking futon frame is a digital recording of dolphins talking. It helps me relax. I'm certainly not having sex in your house. Oh, and don't bother checking for the cute Colombian kid downstairs, he's uhhh...not there."

"It may sound like I'm home, but that's because you're a delusional control freak who hears things that aren't there. Don't worry, though, I'm not having a conversation with your therapist right now or anything."

"On streetcorner making rent"

"That smell isn't pot smoke, I'm not even home. What? Stop looking at the door like that. Don't even think about knocking! Hey, I said--"

"Out. But not all in your face about it."

"I spent all of last night/this morning on a Moonbounce with the Brazilian national college soccer team. If you even think about knocking before 8 PM, I'll have Max decapitate you with a swift kick of his soccer ball."

"Turn around. Sucker."

"In Fallujah fighting insurgent terrorists to make the world safe for Democracy, just like a Good Little American Patriot. I'm definitely not sleeping with your boyfriend at The Park Plaza hotel. That would be wrong."

"I'm just sitting on my desk waiting for YOU whoever YOU may be to come in. Don't bother knocking, just come in. I promise the rattlesnake waiting on the other side of the door has been defanged. He's really a sweet little snake. He loves to be punched, though. Why don't you punch him on your way in?"

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/95042.html

The Real Catty World (Part 4: Still Crushin')

Crush. Crush. Crush. Orange Crush. Grape Crush. High School Crush. Crushed Velvet. Crush from Demolition. Crush. Crush. Crush. I've had every sort of crush imaginable. Hot boys with no brains. Smart boys with no asses. Big dicked, boner-brained hipsters, hippies who've met every criteria associated with the word thick you can imagine, I've even crushed on dorks with overbites so big you could hang them from the Sears Tower by their upper jaw. Does anyone remember Strawberry Crush or Watermelon Crush? Back in the days of Fresca and Tab you could get any type of Crush you wanted. The options were...well...crushing. I've been all kinds of crushed. Emotionally, physically, spiritually, agnostically. I crush. You crush. We crush. I have been crushed.

The two people I've fallen hardest for, I haven't been able to write about. MAMIP and Liam. Liam was a pretty typical crush for me: cute nerd who everyone thinks is quiet, but is secretly a jaded neurotic type with a killer body and hot nerd tongue. Not that we ever kissed, but the ex-girlfriend who stole his virginity, then did the whole "I think I'm pregnant" routine with him TWICE when he tried to break up with her, she told me the things he could do with his tongue were amazing. Unfuck her for torturing me that way.

MAMIP was far from typical. Sweet, charming, sincere, honest, sexy. He has a voice that makes women (and ten percent of the guys) orgasm from fifty feet away just by saying the word "Oy." His Portuguese Oy has often caused me to give a Yiddish Oi. His voice. A man that hot, but so sweet and shy shouldn't have that kind of voice. He should have to talk through JAWS...with a lisp. But no, he's got Voice.

Imagine my pants splattering surprise when, after seven months of not talking to each other, he called me. When his name showed up on Caller ID, I dropped the phone on the sidewalk, then scrambled to pick it up, elbowing two old ladies, and a toddler with a clear learning disability. "Hey (let's for the fuck of it call him Mark) Marc!"

"¿Stevie?"

He had dialed the wrong number. "No, it's Safey."

"Oh, hey Safey. I'm sorry I was trying to dial someone else."

Imagine how disappointed I'd be if that's how the conversation had actually gone down. It didn't.

After seven months, I'd had all the silence I could take from him. So I called him when I KNEW he'd be at work. How did I know? Certainly not because I called his work first to find out if he was there. What kind of desperate psycho do you think I am? Surely not THAT kind.

When his voicemail picked up, I smoothly left him a message: "Oh, Marc, I'm sorry I was trying to call my friend Martin. Hey, I haven't talked to you in ages. I don't know what you've been up to lately, but I miss hanging out with you. Maybe I'll stop in and visit you at work one of these days. Happy Holidays."

Oh, yeah. I'm smoove like Smoove B. I combined my awkward lack of social skills, creative dishonesty, and free cell phone minutes into a looooooooooooooooove trap. And that's why I dropped the phone, and beat up a couple of septuagenarians and an infant to get at my cell.

"Hey, Marc, how are you?"

"I'm good." And the way he said good was just...soooo...goooooooooooooooooooooooo

ooooooooood. It was twenty-someodd degrees and I was melting. "How are you?"

Well, I was, if not depressed, very much apathetic. No Internet access, I'm not fully moved out of my old place or into my new one. I've been couch surfing by request. A few nights with Zuzu, a few with Cali, now with Celeste. All in all this week has gone from not very good to wow, this is going to suck. Until the call.

I'd regale you with all the sensual details of our conversation, like how we're going to get together for coffee, even though neither of us drink coffee, but that sort of thing is boring. Instead I'll talk about all the sex we aren't going to have because he's probably still not out, and he lives with his close-knit family, and I now live with...

Ahhh, the new house.

The Landlord is The King of Signs. The door tells the mailman where to leave which letters. There's a sign on the bottom stair telling you to watch your step, and clean your feet. At the top of the steps, each bedroom door is marked with which roommate lives in the room. There wil be four of us, including the landlord. We certainly don't want to get all confused thinking someone lives in the wrong room. The kitchen tells you which glasses The Landlord would rather you use, as well as which spices go with which kind of food, and how long to dry each type of dish. Don't even ask about the full colored manual in the washing room. It has graphs. Plural. GraphS.

The first night that I crashed at my future house, there was a note telling me how to turn on the lights. Unfortunately, I couldn't see the sign because all the lights were out. This caused me to stumble into Roommate #1: The Frat Boy, who was stumbling drunkenly down the stairs. He gave the typical Frat Boy Mating Call "What the Fuck?" when he bumped into me. I introduced myself, he went to the bathroom, and then to bed. I haven't seen him since.

Roommate #2 is on The Real South Beach Diet. Pills. Many many many pills. Even Barry Bonds has called the house asking Roommate #2 to stop taking so many goddamned pills. It's freakish. The way he hunches over when he shuffles downstairs to smoke or take some pills. It's the only thing he leaves the house for: to get more pills from the pharmacy. Luckily, Roommate #2 will be gone in two weeks. I'm not sure who will be replacing him. Frat Boy will also be gone in the new year.

Roommate #3 is...I didn't get his name. He was talking to me for about ten minutes, but the entire time he was talking, all I was thinking was "pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty", which I'm pretty sure means he's straight.

Which beings us back to Marc, who isn't straight but he plays one in his social groups. I've missed him like astronauts miss gravity. He wants to see my new place. In my mind this means we're going to fuck all day, fall in love, make beautiful Brazilian-Irish-American babies. But I know in his mind, he's just curious about where I live. I'm fairly pessimistically certain that he's incapable of loving me with the furor that I love him.

Next week, I'll be back in his orbit. He will pull every bone, muscle, and organ into a new alignment. I will be so atrophied that the gravity of his kiss will tear through my body, leaving me as a pile of bones on the carpet of my new place. Crushed. Again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/93103.html

At Least

I've got about sixty pounds of books, paper, and an industrial strength stapler on my back; on my shoulder is a bag carrying a 1998 era Compaq Presario, a CD RW drive, and accompanying computer paraphernalia; in my left hand is a duffel bag filled with clothes, assorted art supplies, and a pillow. It's cold, and I'm wearing neither a hat nor gloves. As I say goodbye to Zuzu, to head into Boston, she remarks how cold it is. Because I am incredibly daft, I say "At least it's not sno" fuck "wing."

It could be worse. I could have said "at least I haven't tripped over a rock, and caught my balance just in time to get a face full of explosive diarrhea from a cow" or "at least I haven't been abducted by Ann Coulter and had video screens that play only Jennifer Lopez movies and Old Navy commercials implanted on the inside of my eyelids". At least I didn't say either of those thi---shit.

Fortunately, the snow had the approximate duration of the Nu-Metal craze.

My mission of the day was simple: write an Insafemode entry, buy black thread. I decided to tackle the thread issue first. I checked art stores, craft stores, goth stores (for all of your black needs), sewing stores, thread stores, spool stores, adult toy stores (my ADHD kicked in), and an urban clothing store called Black Threadz. Most misleading store name ever. There was no black thread to be found anywhere in Boston. I had to settle on Wilting Christmas Tree Green thread and hope it would match the project it was needed for. It did.

With thread in pocket, I headed out to meet a friend for dinner. And, though the food we ate made us both a little ill, we did have a good time hanging out. She wanted me to recommend band names for her. Here is a partial list of the names she rejected:

Sluttle
Sad Cookie Jar
Proudest Mouse
Soup for Breakfast
Compromise
Decidedly Ambiguous
Muppet Sandwich
Bukakke Laundromat
Elf Restraints
Frozen Yoga
Twitchy Hugs
Limp Handshake
Sharpie Mustache and The Cockslappers

There was more that's happened since my last update, and most of it is interesting to live, not so interesting to read about. Once assorted guests leave my new place, I'll be heading over there to begin the move in process. In the nicewhile, I'm having fun visiting with various friends who I never get to spend much time with...and stealing their underwear.

Drunken Conversations At Hampshire College

The band geeks are discussing how one of them got a 98% in band even though all he did the entire semester was sit between the two most talented trombonists and copy their arm movements. "I never once played a single note unless I was asked to demonstrate something solo. When I inevitably screwed up, I told my teacher I didn't work well with pressure. So I ended up with an A in the class despite the fact that I can't even play my instrument at all."

The pretentious know-nothing is discussing why he didn't like the night's poetry event. "Poetry is meant to be read on a page. Performance is sooo unnecessary. Because poetry should be like music. And the people performing had a guitarist, which is music, but it's not the kind of music that I like, so it's not musical. And anyway, the dick with two belts just cried the whole time while the other guy wasn't being as subtle as poetry should be. Poetry is meant to be performed, and I felt like I should have had paper in front of me to understand what he was saying."

I'm on the phone with an almost ex who says "'I'm so bummed you haven't come and visited me. I'm hanging out with your friend Jud, and we're gonna go to this dance club in a few minutes, and I'm gonna get him drunk and let him fuck the hell out of me. What do you think of that?" And since I'm The Other Guy that the Know Nothing was talking about, and I wasn't in a very good mood to begin with, I tell him, honestly, "I'm not sure which one of you two to feel sorry for. You're both terrible in bed."

The guitarist is being smoked out by a trio of girls who haven't said much to me when I've stayed in their apartment. When they leave to go to The Dance Party (which turns out to be one semi-cute Latino guy playing bad reggae and not wearing a shirt), the Guitarist says "It's good to be in the band, everyone always smokes out the band. And since I am the entire band tonight, it's gonna be awesome. Did you see those girls? They think they're so much better than every one else who lives here. Especially the two conventionally pretty ones. They hang out with the fat girl because they think it makes them look hotter. But even though she's a snob and kind of a slut, the fat girl is much prettier than the other two will ever be."

I'm on my way up to the computer because, apart from the guitarist, there is no one downstairs yet that I want to hang out with. J*Me (the dick with two belts), Erin, Casey, Brian, and all the other roommates who weren't cool enough to be part of the Snobs Smoking Out The Guitarist aren't back from the show yet. I'm nearly there when another girl I've never seen before says "I loved your show tonight." I give the obligatory thanks. "My brother has your CD on my computer." At first I'm flattered that her brother not only has my CD but has been playing it for his sister and saying how good it is. Then I remember I DON'T HAVE A CD. "My CD?" I ask. "Yea, my brother bought it in (location withheld until I raze it) from (name withheld until I pummel him into a little ball and kick him until he burns up in the atmosphere). It has the Math Poem that you did tonight, and five or six other tracks." So someone recorded one of my shows, and is selling it without my knowledge or permission for a profit. If I wasn't angry a minute ago....

After I've calmed down and written a fairly terse e-mail to Mr. Copyright Violation, I go back downstairs where everyone I wanted to hang out with has shown up, the Trio of Snobs has left as well as The Band Geeks (now who's the snob Mr. Mode?). J*Me is telling me about this guy we both barely know who "has a cock only about average length but it's wide as" and here he takes his tall Pabst Blue Ribbon Can and fellates it. This is my cue to wander to another conversation.

Over on the couches, which I will dub The Cool Corner, people are talking about other poets who've crashed with them. Steggy's name comes up as another good feature. And someone says "The first time Steggy was here, he was being all cool and really touchy-feely, and drunk...definitely drunk. And he turns to someone and whispers in their ear and the person shouts out 'BRIAN? BUT BRIAN'S STRAIGHT' to which Steggy replies 'I'm so confused, I've never seen so many gay seeming straight guys in my life.'" Amen, Steggy, wherever you are.

At 1 AM, J*Me decides he wants pizza. He lets us all know by screaming "PIZZA!!! I WANT PIZZA DAMNIT!!!" So, I go and get the number of the local pizza place, which is, naturally, closed, it being 1 AM. Domino's is open until 4 AM, however, so I begin asking for the number for Domino's. This gets all of the Politically Aware in a tizzy because the owner of Domino's supports the Pro-Life movement, so no one wants to support them. Whatever. Every corporation has owners or prominent members who have political values you're probably going to disagree with. Boycotting them for that is inane. If you want to boycott Domino's, boycott them because their pizza sucks.

An hour or so later the pizzas arrive. While we're sitting in the kitchen, munching on slices, Mustache Screwface (he wanted that nickname...don't ask) tells the story about how he lost one of his teeth during a stagefighting accident during a production of Cabaret. He says "I didn't really mind losing the tooth. It's kind of a manly thing to lose your tooth in a fight." "You didn't lose your tooth in a fight." I say "You lost it during a stage fight that was part of a musical. The only thing gayer would be if it got knocked out by a cock. Wait a second. Actually losing your tooth in a musical stage fight is gayer than losing a tooth to a cock. I could see how someone could lose a tooth while accidentally coming in contact with a cock. No one has ever accidentally been in a musical."

By about 3 AM, people start to head to their respective rooms. J*Me follows a cute straight boy who doesn't even seem gay to his apartment. The guitarist and I each take a couch. Upstairs, Pretentious Know Nothing has returned to bashing on poetry, which he clearly has never been exposed to in his miserable, keg party existence. He is trying to impress some girl and make out with her. I know this because he's also discussed his "making out prowress". I envision him on stage between J*Me and I, copying our hand movements and mouthing along with our poetry, hoping to get an A in Seducing Hampshire Students. I wish him all the luck in the world. And syphilis. I wish him syphilis, too.

The Real Catty World (Part 3: FOOD In The Rent)

I am a terrible judge of character. I confuse people's generosity with martyr complexes. I can't tell the difference between a wonderful, giving person with a few quirks, and a complete psychopath with moments of humanity. So it is that I completely misjudged the house that I assumed would be Gay.

I made the assumption because so many of the people who replied to my roommate ads were GGGGGGAY, and came right out and mentioned that they were looking for GGGGGGAY roommates. So when I read the e-mail from someone who had a house that he touted as having an "International flair", and made perfectly innocent statements that, because of my interactions with other "innocent" statement makers, I believed they were codes for "I am a dirty pervert who will give you a cheap place to live so long as I can fondle myself while I watch you sleep." This was not the case at all.

In order to prep myself for impending Gayness, I spent the entire two mile or so walk to the house listening to music that I won't admit to publicly, some of the artists' names rhymed with Wisteena Magumera and Whitney Gears.

I took off my headphones just as I approached a house where a man somewhere between his late fifties and late sixties was leaning over, working on a garden. Unlike the stodgy Harvard professor/landlords, though, his look was complimented by a natural unegotistical speech pattern, and actual eye contact. Borderline creepy eye contact. But borderline, so that's okay.

Once we went in the house, he offered me coffee. I don't drink coffee. So he offered tea. I don't like tea either, but I'll drink it when someone is politely trying to make me something hot to drink.

The house was gorgeous. Very well preserved (cleaning service comes in every other week), great natural lighting, nice open feel. In fact everything about both house and landlord seemed open. The only part of the interview that left a bad taste in my mouth was the tea that scalded my tongue when I drank it too quickly. The rent even includes food. FOOD is included in the rent. FOOD. You make a grocery list, the landlord buys you food. FOOD. Did I mention that FOOD is included in the rent? A comfortable, well lit house with rent that includes utilities, high speed internet access, cable TV, FOOD, LAUNDRY DETERGENT, no-coin-necessary washer/dryer, and cleaning service. Seriously, even if this guy kills me in three months and buries me in his basement, at least I will die happily in a sort of writer's utopia that has FOOD included in the rent.

If he rents the room out to someone else, I will be insadmode.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/86303.html

The Real Catty World (Part 2: Purely Academic Reasons To Get Out Of The Rental Pool)

Not too far from Danny's apartment is the wonderful world of M.I.T. Hot nerd central. Granted, it's also ugly nerd central, but let's not dwell on that.

M.I.T. is a forest of equations that you can't see through the variables. I've always wanted to be tangentially associated with it. It implies math intelligence. I my have blinked my way through Calculus, but I am exceptionally quick with basic math, and simple geometry. For example: a fifty year old man claiming to be twenty-one has subtracted twenty-nine years off of his age, which equals me not even sticking around for the interview. Or, if Safey is looking for an apartment, and you advertise having a swimming pool, when you mean that there is a gym across the street with a swimming pool, how fast will Safey run away from your apartment when you invite him in for lunch? Very fast.

The Harvard landlords are more honest. This makes no sense to me, as Harvard is much likelier to spit out lawyers and fiction writers than chemical engineers. Then again, little in life makes sense to me these days.

The Harvard landlords tend to be "mature gentlemen" who are looking to help out younger men. While odds are against all of them having hidden cameras located in the bedrooms and bathrooms, I'm pretty sure that I met more than one "gentleman" who had a library full of homemade amateur porn starring unsuspecting young guys. "I'll cook you dinner, and do your grocery shopping, and if you need a few extra weeks to make rent" I'll rape you in your sleep was inferred at the end of the sentence. No thanks, Grandpa.

Harvard students had some fantastic apartments. Most of them well out of my price range. But looking didn't hurt. Much.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/85934.html

The Real Catty World (Part 1: Danny)

The next few months are either going to be a catalyst for future writing or a Scared Straight program. Not that the two are mutually exclusive.

I'm moving in with gay people.

No, I haven't "met someone", or been cast in the first reality show to be aired on MTV LOGO: "The Real Catty World"; I've decided to move somewhere more affordable. While my current roommates are unquestionably the coolest people I've ever lived with, there are some things I couldn't deal with anymore: the way O would hide my shoes on the other side of the house, and scatter the floor with nails and broken glass; the way D would wait for me to go down to The Inconvenience Store, and then stick my geckos in the blender; their constant waking me up at odd hours in the morning to film them having sex with the underage girls they picked up at the local burn unit; the way O pronounces the word "the". I know, I'm being picky, but that's just the way I am.

So Tuesday night, I started looking for some local places to move to. Somewhere in the price range of broke.

My first Internet Search led me to a quaint little first floor apartment in Dorchester. Reasonable rent, no roommates, moderately furnished. It seemed too good to be...it was the apartment I'd shared with Melissa Plummer. Granted, she's two tenants removed from the apartment by now, it's still not a place I'd feel comfortable living. I'd be kicking ghost dogs all the time.

After assorted promising looking rentals that, of course, did not exist anymore by the time I joined WeTrickedYouIntoSigningUpForOurApartment

Search.com, I found a few local bonanzas.

Today I met with Danny. Danny is a 23 year old Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay Gay guy. He goes through all the ads on the various apartment sites, and expresses interest in every gay guy under 30 looking for a place to live. His apartment is in a complex directly around the corner from the house I'm living in now. It's ripe with "The Danny Touch" as he calls it. Rainbow flags? Check. Titanic poster? Check. Various CD art from Madonna and Bjork albums sticky tacked to the walls? Check. Abercrombie & Fitch ads FRAMED and hung on the walls? Check. Rainbow bedspread? Check. I was shocked when I opened the refrigerator to discover that not all the food in there was covered in pink frosting. There were, however, Snowballs on the kitchen counter. "Because it's winter." Danny cheerfully pointed out. Thanks, Captain Obvious, have another pink star.

After a few minutes of reasonable conversation, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I tested to see how long it took for the water to get hot (thanks for the tips sarchal). I envisioned an elf with a blue candle swinging from pipe to pipe between the dozens of apartments in the building, trying to get the water lukewarm as quickly as possible. Sorry Link, next time use the ocarina of time.

When I came back out, we had an earnest discussion of the kind of guys I liked, and I realized I was being interviewed for something more than a roommate. Well, I could do a lot worse than Danny. He was very cute and seemed both smart and funny, but I'm not going to move in and have sex with someone I just met. That's what lesbians do on their second date, not gay guys. Gay guys don't have second dates. Which is one of the reasons why I didn't say "I'll be in touch" when I left.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/85531.html