dreams and hurricanes
Exchange Student Trapped in Velcro-Esque Surreality
Santiago de los Caballeros, Domincan Republic
JP News Feed
Today in the Cibao region of a small-large plantain republic in the Carribbean, a man-boy of indeterminate and fluctuating European muttery is dreaming of feminism and spiders, giant catfish and house foreclosures, picturesquely preserved southern towns stationed on oak-covered california hills, snow-covered visions of foggy white horses and rainy tenth-grade adventures.
"When I was in my sophomore year," said the interviewed suffererdreamer, going by his childhood taunt Joey Pepporoni. "I used to (religiously) carry around a silver Discman, stocked with Boys for Pele and... and.. a pair of folding headphones which would convey the depressing and empowering sounds of a certain red-haired chalky-white folk-vocal-pianist into the receptive ears of a lost queer boy. He'd walk with me along the aged asphalt walkway through past the track and field, past the rough cinder-block orange-trimmed gymnasium reeking of forbidden masculinity and humiliating phys-ed locker rooms.
"The mundane existence of a suburban teen was transformed into a sort of hypermediocrity as he trudged or flew along the damp camel-colored dirt road to the school bus, entranced by the the dew-drop green grass, muted as it was in the muddy winters, and the prints of worn Vans in the frost-covered wooden planks of the bridge, tenderized by the creosote injected into them so systematically sometime in 1983. When he was late, his cheeks and fingers would redden with the cold, and his breath would thin. When on the bike, he wore sheepskin-lined black-suede Isotoners, clumsily manipulating the index shifters with the heel of his hand.
"Disregarding the stares of the other students at the bus stop of Route 7, he'd lose himself in tales of Agent Orange and Caught a Light Sneeze, blurring the flashing fenceposts of the countryside into the cheap vanilla-scented girls of the housing developments trying so hard to impress the horny skateboarders rolling joints in the back. The fenceposts looked like Matthew Shephard's death knell.
"By first period, waking in the dark to the slow crescendo of my alarm clock and the moonlit fog seemed an unattainable past. The Lombardi poplars swaying, casting shadows in inspiring patterns across my hairless chest, evoking the dreams of That Crush and the unattainable story about the pine-floored split-level in Monterey Heights. I used to get up at five in the morning on school days at Dad's to get to school by 5:45 and would watch the sunrise from the second floor metal slats. Respite would have to wait until lunchtime and the wonderful escape of the bottom floor of the Mom's graphic designer's parking garage.
"I love the rain," continued the delusionaljoven. Now stationed in the at once beautiful and desolate, impoverished and sexualized Santiago, Pepperoni's exchange agency recommended he remain in the concrete safehouse of #2, Calle Doce. Shortly before going into hiding, the agent was able to procure a supply of contraband films. Mona Lisa Smile, House of Sand and Fog, Reel Big Fish, and City of God supplied a steady stream of quasi-nostalgic Estadounidense scenery and emotional plotlines in exchange for a reduction of circulation in the gluteus maximus.
Agent 3, alias Tim Burton, passed on a number of coded messages to the agent through "feature film" Reel Big Fish.
"About halfway through the transmission, I realized Agent 3 intended to explain the importance of blowing my cover. Apparently, by being Silent All These Years, I've actually achieved nothing and may now, instead, speak up for something important instead pontificating on the subjective beauty of parted blond straight hair. The entire time I've been in the field I've been inadvertently deterring important double-agent assets. My new course of action, effective immediately, is to stop pretending I don't want to [interviewee begins wildly dancing while performing slam poetry about a Boy Who Rode His Bicycle Around The World.]
Santiago de los Caballeros, Domincan Republic
JP News Feed
Today in the Cibao region of a small-large plantain republic in the Carribbean, a man-boy of indeterminate and fluctuating European muttery is dreaming of feminism and spiders, giant catfish and house foreclosures, picturesquely preserved southern towns stationed on oak-covered california hills, snow-covered visions of foggy white horses and rainy tenth-grade adventures.
"When I was in my sophomore year," said the interviewed suffererdreamer, going by his childhood taunt Joey Pepporoni. "I used to (religiously) carry around a silver Discman, stocked with Boys for Pele and... and.. a pair of folding headphones which would convey the depressing and empowering sounds of a certain red-haired chalky-white folk-vocal-pianist into the receptive ears of a lost queer boy. He'd walk with me along the aged asphalt walkway through past the track and field, past the rough cinder-block orange-trimmed gymnasium reeking of forbidden masculinity and humiliating phys-ed locker rooms.
"The mundane existence of a suburban teen was transformed into a sort of hypermediocrity as he trudged or flew along the damp camel-colored dirt road to the school bus, entranced by the the dew-drop green grass, muted as it was in the muddy winters, and the prints of worn Vans in the frost-covered wooden planks of the bridge, tenderized by the creosote injected into them so systematically sometime in 1983. When he was late, his cheeks and fingers would redden with the cold, and his breath would thin. When on the bike, he wore sheepskin-lined black-suede Isotoners, clumsily manipulating the index shifters with the heel of his hand.
"Disregarding the stares of the other students at the bus stop of Route 7, he'd lose himself in tales of Agent Orange and Caught a Light Sneeze, blurring the flashing fenceposts of the countryside into the cheap vanilla-scented girls of the housing developments trying so hard to impress the horny skateboarders rolling joints in the back. The fenceposts looked like Matthew Shephard's death knell.
"By first period, waking in the dark to the slow crescendo of my alarm clock and the moonlit fog seemed an unattainable past. The Lombardi poplars swaying, casting shadows in inspiring patterns across my hairless chest, evoking the dreams of That Crush and the unattainable story about the pine-floored split-level in Monterey Heights. I used to get up at five in the morning on school days at Dad's to get to school by 5:45 and would watch the sunrise from the second floor metal slats. Respite would have to wait until lunchtime and the wonderful escape of the bottom floor of the Mom's graphic designer's parking garage.
"I love the rain," continued the delusionaljoven. Now stationed in the at once beautiful and desolate, impoverished and sexualized Santiago, Pepperoni's exchange agency recommended he remain in the concrete safehouse of #2, Calle Doce. Shortly before going into hiding, the agent was able to procure a supply of contraband films. Mona Lisa Smile, House of Sand and Fog, Reel Big Fish, and City of God supplied a steady stream of quasi-nostalgic Estadounidense scenery and emotional plotlines in exchange for a reduction of circulation in the gluteus maximus.
Agent 3, alias Tim Burton, passed on a number of coded messages to the agent through "feature film" Reel Big Fish.
"About halfway through the transmission, I realized Agent 3 intended to explain the importance of blowing my cover. Apparently, by being Silent All These Years, I've actually achieved nothing and may now, instead, speak up for something important instead pontificating on the subjective beauty of parted blond straight hair. The entire time I've been in the field I've been inadvertently deterring important double-agent assets. My new course of action, effective immediately, is to stop pretending I don't want to [interviewee begins wildly dancing while performing slam poetry about a Boy Who Rode His Bicycle Around The World.]