save me
so i'm really hating on comcast cause they are cuntards. one more flub or any arguments on the phone about my current bill (which i expect credited up till, like, yesterday) will result in me sucking it the fuck up and getting dsl...
i think brittney should cover "umbrella", what a way to poke fun at oneself and revive a dead career. looky what "my lumps" did for alanis...
back to work soon till sometime after midnight tonight, then prolly come home and type up everything i may want to reference in the future from "you'll never eat lunch in this town again" by julia phillips...amusing but slightly repetitive saga with several snicker-worthy spots...
one day, after a decent win, as i am strolling home, humming to myself with the pleasure of the jingling of the coins in my pocket, i see a classmate mowed down by a hit-and-run driver and discover several things about myself. one, i have a photographic memory - i provide the police with the license number of the evil car, and two, i am not much put off by the sight of blood, of which there is plenty, because the kid is hit in the head. my classmate is proclaimed dead a few days later, but i know that when i see the accident.
the third thing i learn is that i might not believe in god, but i sure make some unusual connections. there is no way i can convince myself that my illicit gambling isn't in some way connected to the accident i witness. the wages of sin are death. my sin, his death. some part of me understands the therefore-do-not-send-to-know-for-whom-the-bell-tollsness of it all. pretty religious thinking for a mini-atheist.
"suck harder," he screams. and i get lit. i like the way the ember looks and the way you can make it bright by sucking harder. i was a bottle-fed celiac baby. "now suck it into your lungs and blow it out." johnny harmon is so cool. ok, i will.
i am so nauseated that i keel over, off the edge of the dock and into the water. if i hadn't hit water, i'd have probably puked all over johnny harmon and my rash would've gone away, because in all likelihood johnny harmon would have gone away. unless he was kinky. he did have that great nazi look. this is a look that will appeal to me into my thirties, especially if i am on the rebound from a smart, funny, dark, ethnic guy who seems cute but has broken my heart with cruelty. i come to in the water and swim ashore, completely straight. johnny harmon is convulsed with laughter. i am a regular jerry lewis as far as he is concerned. i will never get rid of this rash.
pissed, i make him give me another. i enjoy it. it is love at second sight. there are quite a few drugs that make you puke first and get you to love them later. i never pass out from smoking again.
nobody in california understands the importance of a good haircut that changes every six months. everyone seems to be wearing the same old paul mitchell shag, which was cool when jane fonda had it in klute and is now on everyone and getting more extreme.
when we get back to the hotel, don is still wired from the redford evening, so we have a nightcap in my room. we get into some heavy necking, but he is very uptight about my married status. i say something corny, "don't make me beg," but the farthest he ever goes is down on me.
after this quasi-sexual encounter, he feels very free about expressing his preferences, which seem to revolve around turning women over and fucking them in the ass. he talks about angry fucking, and i am grateful we never get to intercourse, because i don't think i'd like it very much his way. we stay tight friends, but it is by silent mutual agreement that there will be no more sex.
they're all out here, great toys. numerology, astrology, i ching, sufi, which becomes arica, then est, lifespring, self-actualization. actually est is the marriage of the yuppie ethic with some ancient pop philosophy tossed in. michael likes the i ching. michael likes anything with coins. i have never known anyone in my life to whom money is so important. i am glad he is on my side.
but we are very much not on each other's side. we are breaking up and it is my fault. i love him and i need him, but i don't want him anymore, i want to move on and i'm pushing for the breakup. i am frightened about it most of the time; i am hating myself for some incredibly bad behavior that i choose to do in public, and that is fed by a coterie of fags who are amused by incredibly bad behavior.
"what do i do..."
"throw the coins..." i jiggle them around in my fist then throw them like dice. "let them fall more - don't throw them - let them slide off the side of your palm." okay, i get it; laid back. i let them slide. michael peers down at them, then grabs the book and thumbs through the pages quickly. we do this three times, and on the third time he reads me a long passage about a lark who leaves all her friends and family behind her to fly higher and higher, and soar in great loop-the-loops and skim the tops of trees only to be caught in a burst of wind and fall suddenly to the ground. moi? i ching, therefore i am.
while he is telling me this and hurting my feelings, he reaches for my hand and says he is really more interested in me than the job. my ultimate punisher. the more he tells me what a piece of shit i am the more i'm crazy for him. ah, the relationships we get into just to get out of the ones we are not brave enough to say are over.
i am nervous and thirsty. beautiful connie brings me a tab, and i trace the pattern with my fingertips over and over so that i can space on them - self-induced drug flashbacks. they put me in an alpha state. they make me clear and charismatic.
steven and albert come back to the hotel and albert makes us all laugh. he walks around the room and picks things up and says funny lines and then moves on. object humor. albert is screamingly funny. Q: why don't i like him? A: i'm tired of screaming.
there is always a second-act curtain in a relationship, an event that signals the end is near.
what does the new york times have against me, i wonder, remembering guy flatley's piece in which i was referred to as "exasperatingly thin-lipped," whatever the fuck that was. maybe that i didn't have the requisite equipment for giving good head.
"i've never seen anyone make a decision this fast," he says. that's because you deal with rich yentas spending their husband's money. you would think since this money is mine, earned by me, that that would make me more careful, but for some reason, it is provoking sicko extravagance all the way around. erica jong has told me repeatedly that i overtip, that overtipping is a sign of insecurity. so's overwriting, i want to say, but don't.
i squint my eyes meaningfully at steven. "i think you should let me go to sleep now," i say. he shakes his head, no. should, too, should not, should, too, should not. in the end, of course, he sleeps like an innocent child, and i, burdened by the karma of previous lives, sleep not at all.
i do two things in preparation for this big lunch, to which i wear a black brioni pantsuit with a white chiffon tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to my waist and a matching white chiffon scarf doubled around my throat so it just gives glimpses of tan in march; i watch the wild bunch the night before, because it always fires me up; and i let jack spratlin fuck me from behind in the closet in front of the mirror just before i leave for the meeting. an impulsive thing, standing in my closet naked waiting for the right outfit to say yes.
mr. wald is experiencing great pain in hawaii. he has not yet accepted that he is addicted to cocaine and marijuana, but he does know that his life is in disorder and that he and helen have managed to spend most of the $40 million that they have earned. for most people that would be irrefutable proof that something is fucked up, but mr. wald is very smart and uses all his considerable intellectual powers to convince himself that it is the world, and not he, that needs to change. semi-clean as i am, something in his desperate need to fall in love with me touches me, and i respond by participating in some of the most boring sex that i've ever endured. but that is how sex, sans drugs, is getting to be with me, anyway. the excitement comes with the principle of love as opposed to the love itself.
AA people will tell you that every junkie is the same. that every drug is the same. that there are rules, principles, steps that everyone who is addicted to something can take that will help to stop the addiction. i know a lot of people, alive as well as dead, who have cleaned up behind AA. they do seem to get somewhat addicted to AA, but over the years, i have decided that this is quibbling...
i do really have a problem with the "same" concept. if every junkie is the same, that is essentially saying that every human being is the same. that denies our specialness, our uniqueness. AA aficionados will tell you that you haven't really "gotten it" if you don't surrender to the concept of sameness. you're the same as the wino on skid row. i'm the same as you if i love coke and you love smack, but those choices bespeak antithetical highs, antithetical personalities. AA will tell you that you don't want to feel real feelings, so you take drugs to avoid them, but i think that is discounting a whole bunch of drugs that take you further. inside. outside. upside and downside. in the feeling department. in the thinking department. in the sensation department. as it were.
as a third-generation atheist i have serious trouble with the higher power precept upon which AA so heavily relies. see, i think that you take more responsibility for yourself if you don't believe in god than if you do. the i'm-one-of-god's-children-he-will-forgive-me concept has become so much more popular than the i-am-unique-and-possibly-alone-therefore-accountable-for-myself-and-my-behavior school that it really should not be surprising to us that we have become so greedy and unethical and immoral.
people who don't believe in god are stuck with believing in mankind. as they get older, if they have an IQ over 120, they come to realize what a colossal waste of time that is. also as they get older, more and more of their friends die. they start to believe in mankind less. they then go one of two ways: either they get better with themselves or they go back to god. i got better with myself. and worse with mankind. but i am forty-four and have smoked all my life, not to mention all those dangerous drugs.
hey, baby, we've all seen concert footage. it's never as exciting as being there. by now, being there had ceased to be exciting, too, but i have to admit, speed metal in the east village on a hot summer night got my heart started.
fear will do that, no matter how jaded you are.
burnout. burnout everywhere. and the great unwashed turned away from knowledge. moved to the right. worldwide, it seemed. intellectual burnout. she felt sometimes that she was witnessing the end of the human race. of the planet. she felt certain about it and would have been okay about it for herself...but she was pissed for her kid, and that made her pissed for all the kids.
she used to like to watch the news while she was loaded. bunker hunt telling the investigative senate committee that a billion dollars wasn't what it used to be. she had knocked her pipe over on that one, almost set fire to the bedspread with the upset propane tank, she had laughed so hard. right the fuck on, bunker, tell 'em, bro.
now, in fact, with CNN you could have news around the clock. she noticed that a lot of people watched the news all day long while they were cleaning up. she would get calls from them in the middle of the day with a bulletin.
she herself got riveted to china. so, if you want to win just use force. since china was all over television, she assumed children were seeing it, too. what they were going to learn is that if you want to win, use force. bring in the big guns and kill and maim people. why was everyone so surprised about the violence in the world? there was this new learning tool, television. and the whole world was watching.
but abbie hoffman committed suicide. just got depressed and checked out. from all the information. and that the bad guys were winning. in america anyway. that mean republican machine, those greedy pricks.
my first great crawl was across a room because i fell off my platform shoes and had to do something. you have a choice at moments like that. do you suffer loud pain, or do you make it a pratfall and go for the joke? i went for the joke.
i think brittney should cover "umbrella", what a way to poke fun at oneself and revive a dead career. looky what "my lumps" did for alanis...
back to work soon till sometime after midnight tonight, then prolly come home and type up everything i may want to reference in the future from "you'll never eat lunch in this town again" by julia phillips...amusing but slightly repetitive saga with several snicker-worthy spots...
one day, after a decent win, as i am strolling home, humming to myself with the pleasure of the jingling of the coins in my pocket, i see a classmate mowed down by a hit-and-run driver and discover several things about myself. one, i have a photographic memory - i provide the police with the license number of the evil car, and two, i am not much put off by the sight of blood, of which there is plenty, because the kid is hit in the head. my classmate is proclaimed dead a few days later, but i know that when i see the accident.
the third thing i learn is that i might not believe in god, but i sure make some unusual connections. there is no way i can convince myself that my illicit gambling isn't in some way connected to the accident i witness. the wages of sin are death. my sin, his death. some part of me understands the therefore-do-not-send-to-know-for-whom-the-bell-tollsness of it all. pretty religious thinking for a mini-atheist.
"suck harder," he screams. and i get lit. i like the way the ember looks and the way you can make it bright by sucking harder. i was a bottle-fed celiac baby. "now suck it into your lungs and blow it out." johnny harmon is so cool. ok, i will.
i am so nauseated that i keel over, off the edge of the dock and into the water. if i hadn't hit water, i'd have probably puked all over johnny harmon and my rash would've gone away, because in all likelihood johnny harmon would have gone away. unless he was kinky. he did have that great nazi look. this is a look that will appeal to me into my thirties, especially if i am on the rebound from a smart, funny, dark, ethnic guy who seems cute but has broken my heart with cruelty. i come to in the water and swim ashore, completely straight. johnny harmon is convulsed with laughter. i am a regular jerry lewis as far as he is concerned. i will never get rid of this rash.
pissed, i make him give me another. i enjoy it. it is love at second sight. there are quite a few drugs that make you puke first and get you to love them later. i never pass out from smoking again.
nobody in california understands the importance of a good haircut that changes every six months. everyone seems to be wearing the same old paul mitchell shag, which was cool when jane fonda had it in klute and is now on everyone and getting more extreme.
when we get back to the hotel, don is still wired from the redford evening, so we have a nightcap in my room. we get into some heavy necking, but he is very uptight about my married status. i say something corny, "don't make me beg," but the farthest he ever goes is down on me.
after this quasi-sexual encounter, he feels very free about expressing his preferences, which seem to revolve around turning women over and fucking them in the ass. he talks about angry fucking, and i am grateful we never get to intercourse, because i don't think i'd like it very much his way. we stay tight friends, but it is by silent mutual agreement that there will be no more sex.
they're all out here, great toys. numerology, astrology, i ching, sufi, which becomes arica, then est, lifespring, self-actualization. actually est is the marriage of the yuppie ethic with some ancient pop philosophy tossed in. michael likes the i ching. michael likes anything with coins. i have never known anyone in my life to whom money is so important. i am glad he is on my side.
but we are very much not on each other's side. we are breaking up and it is my fault. i love him and i need him, but i don't want him anymore, i want to move on and i'm pushing for the breakup. i am frightened about it most of the time; i am hating myself for some incredibly bad behavior that i choose to do in public, and that is fed by a coterie of fags who are amused by incredibly bad behavior.
"what do i do..."
"throw the coins..." i jiggle them around in my fist then throw them like dice. "let them fall more - don't throw them - let them slide off the side of your palm." okay, i get it; laid back. i let them slide. michael peers down at them, then grabs the book and thumbs through the pages quickly. we do this three times, and on the third time he reads me a long passage about a lark who leaves all her friends and family behind her to fly higher and higher, and soar in great loop-the-loops and skim the tops of trees only to be caught in a burst of wind and fall suddenly to the ground. moi? i ching, therefore i am.
while he is telling me this and hurting my feelings, he reaches for my hand and says he is really more interested in me than the job. my ultimate punisher. the more he tells me what a piece of shit i am the more i'm crazy for him. ah, the relationships we get into just to get out of the ones we are not brave enough to say are over.
i am nervous and thirsty. beautiful connie brings me a tab, and i trace the pattern with my fingertips over and over so that i can space on them - self-induced drug flashbacks. they put me in an alpha state. they make me clear and charismatic.
steven and albert come back to the hotel and albert makes us all laugh. he walks around the room and picks things up and says funny lines and then moves on. object humor. albert is screamingly funny. Q: why don't i like him? A: i'm tired of screaming.
there is always a second-act curtain in a relationship, an event that signals the end is near.
what does the new york times have against me, i wonder, remembering guy flatley's piece in which i was referred to as "exasperatingly thin-lipped," whatever the fuck that was. maybe that i didn't have the requisite equipment for giving good head.
"i've never seen anyone make a decision this fast," he says. that's because you deal with rich yentas spending their husband's money. you would think since this money is mine, earned by me, that that would make me more careful, but for some reason, it is provoking sicko extravagance all the way around. erica jong has told me repeatedly that i overtip, that overtipping is a sign of insecurity. so's overwriting, i want to say, but don't.
i squint my eyes meaningfully at steven. "i think you should let me go to sleep now," i say. he shakes his head, no. should, too, should not, should, too, should not. in the end, of course, he sleeps like an innocent child, and i, burdened by the karma of previous lives, sleep not at all.
i do two things in preparation for this big lunch, to which i wear a black brioni pantsuit with a white chiffon tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to my waist and a matching white chiffon scarf doubled around my throat so it just gives glimpses of tan in march; i watch the wild bunch the night before, because it always fires me up; and i let jack spratlin fuck me from behind in the closet in front of the mirror just before i leave for the meeting. an impulsive thing, standing in my closet naked waiting for the right outfit to say yes.
mr. wald is experiencing great pain in hawaii. he has not yet accepted that he is addicted to cocaine and marijuana, but he does know that his life is in disorder and that he and helen have managed to spend most of the $40 million that they have earned. for most people that would be irrefutable proof that something is fucked up, but mr. wald is very smart and uses all his considerable intellectual powers to convince himself that it is the world, and not he, that needs to change. semi-clean as i am, something in his desperate need to fall in love with me touches me, and i respond by participating in some of the most boring sex that i've ever endured. but that is how sex, sans drugs, is getting to be with me, anyway. the excitement comes with the principle of love as opposed to the love itself.
AA people will tell you that every junkie is the same. that every drug is the same. that there are rules, principles, steps that everyone who is addicted to something can take that will help to stop the addiction. i know a lot of people, alive as well as dead, who have cleaned up behind AA. they do seem to get somewhat addicted to AA, but over the years, i have decided that this is quibbling...
i do really have a problem with the "same" concept. if every junkie is the same, that is essentially saying that every human being is the same. that denies our specialness, our uniqueness. AA aficionados will tell you that you haven't really "gotten it" if you don't surrender to the concept of sameness. you're the same as the wino on skid row. i'm the same as you if i love coke and you love smack, but those choices bespeak antithetical highs, antithetical personalities. AA will tell you that you don't want to feel real feelings, so you take drugs to avoid them, but i think that is discounting a whole bunch of drugs that take you further. inside. outside. upside and downside. in the feeling department. in the thinking department. in the sensation department. as it were.
as a third-generation atheist i have serious trouble with the higher power precept upon which AA so heavily relies. see, i think that you take more responsibility for yourself if you don't believe in god than if you do. the i'm-one-of-god's-children-he-will-forgive-me concept has become so much more popular than the i-am-unique-and-possibly-alone-therefore-accountable-for-myself-and-my-behavior school that it really should not be surprising to us that we have become so greedy and unethical and immoral.
people who don't believe in god are stuck with believing in mankind. as they get older, if they have an IQ over 120, they come to realize what a colossal waste of time that is. also as they get older, more and more of their friends die. they start to believe in mankind less. they then go one of two ways: either they get better with themselves or they go back to god. i got better with myself. and worse with mankind. but i am forty-four and have smoked all my life, not to mention all those dangerous drugs.
hey, baby, we've all seen concert footage. it's never as exciting as being there. by now, being there had ceased to be exciting, too, but i have to admit, speed metal in the east village on a hot summer night got my heart started.
fear will do that, no matter how jaded you are.
burnout. burnout everywhere. and the great unwashed turned away from knowledge. moved to the right. worldwide, it seemed. intellectual burnout. she felt sometimes that she was witnessing the end of the human race. of the planet. she felt certain about it and would have been okay about it for herself...but she was pissed for her kid, and that made her pissed for all the kids.
she used to like to watch the news while she was loaded. bunker hunt telling the investigative senate committee that a billion dollars wasn't what it used to be. she had knocked her pipe over on that one, almost set fire to the bedspread with the upset propane tank, she had laughed so hard. right the fuck on, bunker, tell 'em, bro.
now, in fact, with CNN you could have news around the clock. she noticed that a lot of people watched the news all day long while they were cleaning up. she would get calls from them in the middle of the day with a bulletin.
she herself got riveted to china. so, if you want to win just use force. since china was all over television, she assumed children were seeing it, too. what they were going to learn is that if you want to win, use force. bring in the big guns and kill and maim people. why was everyone so surprised about the violence in the world? there was this new learning tool, television. and the whole world was watching.
but abbie hoffman committed suicide. just got depressed and checked out. from all the information. and that the bad guys were winning. in america anyway. that mean republican machine, those greedy pricks.
my first great crawl was across a room because i fell off my platform shoes and had to do something. you have a choice at moments like that. do you suffer loud pain, or do you make it a pratfall and go for the joke? i went for the joke.