God Given Ass
So it’s me & Sparks & Bowie & Winston lights on Tuesday night, again forgoing Trivia night at the Flying Saucer with my little sis…It’s a wonderful bonding experience, but we don’t need that. I can show off my knowledge of the Dewey Decimal System in other contexts, you see. Hey Jon, you said there’s a party this weekend, right? Can I do figure 500s across the floor in invisible figure skates and convince everyone that this is my tribute to mathematics and maybe start talking natural sciences? Yes, Dewy, you were a great man. And my sister and I have other bonding moments to remember: You see, we do quite well dancing closely together on karaoke night at the redneck bar across the street. Or we have in the past anyway.
And it’s official that I’m once again addicted to Bowie. Tell me about my fantasy life and the fantasy world whose parameters govern (or neglect to govern) it and I’ll wink at you and blame it on the man with the different colored eyes, insisting that “color” has no letter ‘u’ and simultaneously wonder what the technical term for that trait is, and further wonder about the Spanish and German translations for such a word.
I’m often grossly disappointed in erotica and porn, especially the shorts that appear in all of our run of the mill publications and such. I don’t know what the fuck I’m expecting and the solution to this issue is pretty fucking obvious; namely, I just need to start scribbling erotica. I’m not shy about it, I just don’t have so much passion for it. And I’m also averse to that whole erotica-for-women genre because, in my shallow introduction to it, it embodies all things allegedly erotic that make me want to roll my eyes back into my head and gag (ridiculous new-age music and slow undulation on a fucking beach. What the fuck?). But I could revise this, right? Well that’s not the issue at hand. The issue, put simply, is this: I bought a volume of Penthouse letters at Border’s the other day and I guess that maybe I was expecting something that didn’t sound so polished in the most retarded way, as if the same person had written each letter. Yeah, that’s fine, the letters are somewhat of a turn on if you can get past the annoying question that gnaws at your brain at the end of each (“Why do they bother including the fact that ‘K.T.’ from Augusta, Maine contributed this letter when it’s blatantly clear that the same person [likely a female or a gay man, if the latter could even stomach half of this hetero-based shit] that this is a pure, creatively poor fabrication?). Not a huge deal, just a bit of a disappointment. That’s why I tend to dig nerve.com. At least the writing is decent. And then there’s J.T. LeRoy. Anyway…
I have things like white hairs and many pores. I have an obsession with any depilatory process. I found a couple of new white hairs yesterday and, for the first time I think, I didn’t yank them out. I’m trying to deal with the idea of aging and doing it in that cliché fashion--”gracefully.” Why the fuck do I care? Well there are reasons, they are manifold, and this is shit that everyone experiences. My question to the world is, “Would I give a fuck or even be so acutely aware of age difference if I wasn’t told at least three times a week that I look like I’m 19, 20, 22, 24?” Maybe, maybe not. At the end of the day, I’m a vain creature. I think that I transcended this for a bit, but I find myself in my own recent history, trying to claw through the first few chapters and get to the one where superficial shit no longer matters to me. And the most fucked up thing in my world, I think, is the fact that , if I weren’t so obsessed with perception & so acutely aware with the perception of others, I could easily get past this. And also (maybe) if my name didn’t fucking mean “youthful”. What the fuck kind of curse is this?
Oh David Bowie, we would have (and still could) party so fucking hard together.
P.S. The verb “party” is so goddamned white-trash southern to me. Maybe I’ve made my transformation from Yankee to you-know-what rather well.
Another P.S. It just dawned on me that my common use of the word “retarded” could possibly offend some people. I state this now because I used to view it as a taboo word but somehow I now use it on a regular basis. Rest assured everybody, when I translate documents, I use the term “developmentally disabled.” And I used to work with “developmentally disabled” people. And one more thing…I don’t know if you’ll know many more people with more sympathy for our developmentally disabled friends. “Retarded” has become a regular term in our colloquial speech and I’ve been taking full advantage of this. So yeah.
And it’s official that I’m once again addicted to Bowie. Tell me about my fantasy life and the fantasy world whose parameters govern (or neglect to govern) it and I’ll wink at you and blame it on the man with the different colored eyes, insisting that “color” has no letter ‘u’ and simultaneously wonder what the technical term for that trait is, and further wonder about the Spanish and German translations for such a word.
I’m often grossly disappointed in erotica and porn, especially the shorts that appear in all of our run of the mill publications and such. I don’t know what the fuck I’m expecting and the solution to this issue is pretty fucking obvious; namely, I just need to start scribbling erotica. I’m not shy about it, I just don’t have so much passion for it. And I’m also averse to that whole erotica-for-women genre because, in my shallow introduction to it, it embodies all things allegedly erotic that make me want to roll my eyes back into my head and gag (ridiculous new-age music and slow undulation on a fucking beach. What the fuck?). But I could revise this, right? Well that’s not the issue at hand. The issue, put simply, is this: I bought a volume of Penthouse letters at Border’s the other day and I guess that maybe I was expecting something that didn’t sound so polished in the most retarded way, as if the same person had written each letter. Yeah, that’s fine, the letters are somewhat of a turn on if you can get past the annoying question that gnaws at your brain at the end of each (“Why do they bother including the fact that ‘K.T.’ from Augusta, Maine contributed this letter when it’s blatantly clear that the same person [likely a female or a gay man, if the latter could even stomach half of this hetero-based shit] that this is a pure, creatively poor fabrication?). Not a huge deal, just a bit of a disappointment. That’s why I tend to dig nerve.com. At least the writing is decent. And then there’s J.T. LeRoy. Anyway…
I have things like white hairs and many pores. I have an obsession with any depilatory process. I found a couple of new white hairs yesterday and, for the first time I think, I didn’t yank them out. I’m trying to deal with the idea of aging and doing it in that cliché fashion--”gracefully.” Why the fuck do I care? Well there are reasons, they are manifold, and this is shit that everyone experiences. My question to the world is, “Would I give a fuck or even be so acutely aware of age difference if I wasn’t told at least three times a week that I look like I’m 19, 20, 22, 24?” Maybe, maybe not. At the end of the day, I’m a vain creature. I think that I transcended this for a bit, but I find myself in my own recent history, trying to claw through the first few chapters and get to the one where superficial shit no longer matters to me. And the most fucked up thing in my world, I think, is the fact that , if I weren’t so obsessed with perception & so acutely aware with the perception of others, I could easily get past this. And also (maybe) if my name didn’t fucking mean “youthful”. What the fuck kind of curse is this?
Oh David Bowie, we would have (and still could) party so fucking hard together.
P.S. The verb “party” is so goddamned white-trash southern to me. Maybe I’ve made my transformation from Yankee to you-know-what rather well.
Another P.S. It just dawned on me that my common use of the word “retarded” could possibly offend some people. I state this now because I used to view it as a taboo word but somehow I now use it on a regular basis. Rest assured everybody, when I translate documents, I use the term “developmentally disabled.” And I used to work with “developmentally disabled” people. And one more thing…I don’t know if you’ll know many more people with more sympathy for our developmentally disabled friends. “Retarded” has become a regular term in our colloquial speech and I’ve been taking full advantage of this. So yeah.