Me, doing my best Konishi Yasuharu at the office, 5:31PM.
He put the weapon in my lap.
I'm not sure I can help with this. I never liked guns. I love guns. I hate them. Love them. Hate.
He was driving at incredible speeds. It was as if crowded saturday night traffic did not see us. We went around corners in what felt like perfect ninety degrees; I was being swinged in my seat at every turn.
"Just sit back until we get there. Then, follow my lead. When you get a chance to strike, do it. You'll only, only regret it if you hesitate."
from my forthcoming book The Laws of Internet Profile Browsing:
The 'my interests' sections, particularly fields for books and films, are an opportunity for someone to express what in this media and culture saturated world inspires them. The books and films do not have to be high-brow to be of interest. The witty inclusion of Sister Act may simply signify a love of Maggie Smith, in any role. However, a misspelling in this section is a strike against. A misspelling of The Da Vinci Code (i.e. "The DaVinchi Code") means run, muthafucka, run.
"What have I learned in the last 10 years? A partial list: My family is normal. Everyone toadies, and remorseless fuckers prosper. The minute anyone tells you that they want to create their own Algonquin Round Table, but with bloggers, run. Run."
Last night I dreamt about you. It was the first time I've dreamt of you in over a year. I guess that speaks volumes about the last few months of our time together.
We were on my family's farm. Or, I should say, I was. And instead of it being surrounded by flat Ohio farmland, it was surrounded by some kind of dense urban arcology, with farmland stretching in one particular direction, east and northeast. You had come to the spaceport-like density to visit, and to see this famed farm. I was the architect of the entire complex, and, having successfully completed a historic preservation of the farm itself, I was embarking on a new venture to create a new farm building next to The Shed, what my family called a simple metal industrial building my grandfather used to do his woodworking, welding, and painting in. It's also where he kept his liquor stash, and where I suppose he spent much of his time getting drunk. But that was long ago, he died in 1987, and today was the day I announced the brilliant new design, to thunderous acclaim. There were hundreds of people strolling the farm grounds, all congratulating me.
You were in the crowd, swept up by this unexpected deliverance and meeting. When we were together, the farm was to be the site of a brilliant introduction of you and my extended family; however, less than a day before said introduction, you told me you didn't want to be together any more. But that was so long ago, way back in August, and today I was lit up by the love of my work, and the love of my self, and the power of beautiful buildings to touch our lives; you had simply stumbled to a place you never intended on visiting.
I gave you a tour. At first you didn't understand, and reacted with your usual reserve, a feigned indifference covering up terror at looking ignorant. But after I explained the details, you began to get excited, to lose your concerns and to just be with me. I have missed this part: giving you knowledge of something you don't know, or an experience you've never had, and seeing the happiness it brought you. There were so many enjoyable experiences to give you. Rugby Drink-ups. New Orleans, in the Marigny. A recurring theme in a weblog. Surprise performance at BAM. Someone to create your homes. Introductions to famous people, who then become your friends. Someone who is gay but never been to the White Party, Black Party, Whatever Party, and has no intention of pursuing said Party. A Camera to your Subject. Someone who loves you unconditionally.
After the tour, we sat down at the gourmet cantina and you were elated. You asked why haven't you contacted me? and I chose to be with your genuine enthusiasm. I could easily have taken this statement as something else. After all, I contact you all the time, only to receive I'm really busy, which is redundant, because New Yorkers, all of us, are Busy, Important, and Tired. Such a statement, of asking why I haven't said hello, when I say hello all the time, didn't make sense. But this was a dream, and they never make sense, and so I could just be touched by your enthusiasm to be together, to make plans, to explore another corner of the world together, for a short afternoon.
After having no blog links on my main page for-evah, keeping the links updated is a bit of a challenge. Also, I have been lazy about keeping up with other people's blogs, because I rarely read anyone's blogs. Sorry, I have a life, complete with small gay dog and two business ventures, and unless I know and care about you, I probably won't read you. Nothing personal. The last couple of days I have gotten referrer links or an email letting me know someone exists online. It's like I'm a new blogger all over again.
For instance, my absolute favorite blogger of all time had shut down her blog a year or two ago and recently chose to start writing again, secretly, in another place. Her cosmic energy washes over everything I've done.
For instance, my ex-rugby buddy Eric is writing the totally sassy blog We, Like Sheep. I had no clue he had a blog until today; he asks me about my blog constantly, too. Obviously, stealing writing tips. Next time I see him I'm going to tackle him (he was always so bad at avoiding a tackle) and then punch him in the balls. The rarely-shirtless cub wrote a very funny, albeit without irony, slam of the fashionbearista clan, which caught my eye.
My other buddy E writes a clever blog (Tales From Me) but you have to have his secret name and password to read it. He's private (but not so private) like that.
And, of course, like a silent vowel, there's another blog, whose link is missing. It has not been named yet. Anticipation turns me on.
After a week of totally subtle buildup, I am happy to announce the re-launch of GeekSlut.org. The big man in Fort Lauderdale is back, and with a vengence.
1. I never noticed this remotely, but up close, in Stephen's computer lair, I observed his obsessive working process. He edits like no one I've ever met. His edits are never small tweaks: they are huge shifts, always preserving the stream of consciousness. Entire entries are deleted in favor of a completely different topic. I've read a couple of completely different re-launch posts, and I know that none of them will appear today. It's a brilliant tactic, one I've learned a great deal from. It is one reason he's one of the most widely read gay bloggers out there.
2. Stephen beats off when he writes. We had to go mouse shopping. Just sayin'.
3. Stephen, like Prince, can quit having sex experiences from now until he's 80 and still have a daily blog about his sexual exploits. We were looking at old photographs, of him on Fire Island in the early 90s, and suddenly and endless network of stories was available. In fact, almost any topic of conversation is a possible access to past exploits. He has lived a lifetime of blog material in only 42 years.
4. GeekSlut still reads like he sounds in real life.
I felt I hadn't evolved with the blog-times. Blogger wasn't cool enough? Am I going through appearance anxiety? No, that wasn't it. It was functionality, plain and simple: I would trade my lovely minimalist design, which I spent years perfecting, with a packaged minimalist design, throw a few switches and levers, choose the one font of eight I could stomach, all this for a side bar and some comments. I used to hand-code, before there was such a thing as Dreamweaver, or any online support. Now, I just produce content, wrapped in a gorgeous envelope of information, advertisements, and my little links.
Tonight I saw Transamerica. Early on, when the lead is still lying to his/her son, concealing his/her identity, I thought You don't fuck with love when it comes into your life. I parked the thought until after the film: Felicity Huffman's performance had me mesmerized. Like watching Brando in Streetcar, or Jimmie in Rebel.
After the film, after running into Ollie being walked by his dogs, after encountering a confusing note about what I guess was Kimble's barking while I was away (only one person in my building has ever mentioned he made noise, and I think it was because he is usually very quiet), after playing with my little guy trying to make more noise so I could talk to the person who wrote the strange note, I returned to You don't fuck with love.
First, the friend I saw the movie with. It was our first get together, just us, apart from the big crowd we know each other from. He's a sweet, fun, caring friend, and I enjoy spending time with him. I told him so. If I hadn't, I'd be fucking with love.
Then, Mr. Kamm. Earlier in the day, after we ended our meeting, at the gallery, I remarked about his cigarette relapse. I said I love you! Please quit smoking!. He's a great friend, and I don't want him to think he's unloved as I command him to quit his addiction to nicotine. I told him so. If I hadn't, I'd be fucking with love.
Then, my friend Stephen. I love him. I told him so. If I hadn't, I'd be fucking with love. I'm not moving to Fort Lauderdale or anything (even though I thought about it), but I still love him.
Then, all of my friends. There's love of some sort or another everywhere in my life. That thought made me very warm and happy. "Ecstatic" describes it, too.
Then, another friend. I've not said a word, because I don't want to screw it up. Which is what Felicity Huffman said at the part of the movie that got this whole train started. And I just got it, I'm fucking with it here, and my mind is giving me the advice I need to hear: You don't fuck with love.