rock

oh, yeah. and i'm practically blaring the whole sleater-kinney back catalogue from my desk because i feel like it. if the lady behind me gets to sing along to her gospel, i get to rock out a little.

UPDATE:

the girl who sits behind me has turned up her gospel music. IT'S ON, BITCHES.

in excess

people in the "rants and raves" section of craigslist have turned against one of my least favorite restaurants...finally!

"XS on Charles Street SUCKS ASS
Reply to: anon-94171031@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-08-29, 4:38PM EDT


Went there the other day with a friend, was seated by a host
and then waited and waited for a server.

We sat there as two or three servers walked by, never said hi, but they looked at us, never said "we'll be with you soon" (they were a little busy - but nothing extra-ordinary).

So finally, after about 18 minutes or so we left.

Not surprisingly, despite a server noticing our departure, they said nothing.

What the fuck!

XS YOU ALL SUCK ASS - Please keep up the sorry ass service...
and maybe a business person that cares about the customer can take over your lease when you fold - dipshits!"


"RE: XS
Reply to: anon-94257247@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-08-30, 3:39PM EDT


Ate there in the morning the other day and was less then impressed. We should start up a death pool on Baltimore restaurants, bars and clubs.
As a matter of fact I think this is a great idea. Make up a little letterhead (like a skull and crossbones and such) and when a business is selected in the death pool send the business some mail on the letterhead that might read something like this:

Dear XS,

We are happy to inform you that you have been selected in the Charm City Death Pool. It has been wagered that you will be out of business within 6 to 8 months because of your less than satisfactory commitment to service. Hope you live out the rest of your days in business in good health.
Yours Truly,
The Charm City Death Pool"


"RE: XS
Reply to: anon-94418154@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-08-30, 5:57PM EDT


I was undecided about XS until last night. Got take out. It took them 35 fucking minutes to make ten pieces of sushi. With the exception of its height (poor waiters and waitresses) the decor is right off of the assembly line. The music they were playing sounded like what I used to hear as a customer of the Haircuttery. The service, less than friendly.

I might go there to get a coffee and/or dessert (they ain't bad), but I won't go out of my way.

As an aside, the one waitress has amazing breasts."

charm city death pool...i'm in! their comments might be sophomoric, but they're all true.

where i come from.

my father just sent me these pictures he'd received via a forward...



...with the caption "only in oklahoma." that's not true--it could happen anywhere: mississippi, kentucky, alabama. really anywhere there are trailer parks, dented cars, and morons.

La’Chaim

i went back to my crohn's doctor this morning and had lots of conversations about how i felt, whether or not i'd been having stomach pain, and poop. poop poop poop. the first time i talked to him about this unsavory little subject i was embarrassed. now it's old hat. when my doc asked me whether or not i'd ever had problems with incontinence, i responded, "what, you mean like have i ever shit myself?" i actually got my crohn's doc, the venerable doctoral fellow jonathan buscaglia, to say the phrase "shit yourself." it was a happy day. the bottom line from him is that i seem to be doing well, but they did some bloodwork just to make sure that there's no bodily inflammation going on and that i'm absorbing vitamins like i should.

after i talked to dr. buscaglia, the big-man-in-charge came in to see me. since johns hopkins is a research hospital, it seems like there's always someone higher-up to see. every doctor has a doctor to whom they report, who reports to the NIH, who reports to...i don't know, jesus or someone. the big-man-in-charge talked to me a bit about classical singing (bedside manner and all) and then asked me a lot of questions about my medical history, my family's medical history, my ethnic background. i learned a few interesting tidbits:

1. crohn's disease has been linked to stunted growth in the teen years. he asked me how tall i was. i told him 5'8'' (i've stopped trying to stretch it to 5'9''). he asked how tall my other family members are: mom, 5'7'', sister, 6', dad, 6'2''. he then gave me a knowing look. suddenly i have something to blame for being the shortest person in the clan.
2. crohn's disease seems to be prevalent amongst people of jewish descent, especially males whose jewish descent is paternal. ding!
3. unlike ulcerative colitis, another disease releated to crohn's, smoking is very bad for crohn's disease. it makes the scarring go even faster. sweet. another reason for me to continue trying to quit smoking. now every time i light up a few-and-far-between cigarette i'll know that i'm not only destroying my voice and lungs, but that i'm also helping myself along to a crohn's-related bowel surgery. sweet.
4. they've come out with a new version of pentasa, my crohn's medicine, that's a higher dosage. this means that the doctor can up my dosage again without me having to start taking sixteen pills a day again.

ok, that's the crohn's disease update for today. now i need to go call my dad and say thanks for making me jewish.

dinner with the boys

tonight michael and i take another step in our relationship. no, we're not going to start having bareback sex (ew dangerous) or adopt a chinese baby named ling (yet). we're going to catonsville to have dinner with his older gay brother and his older gay brother's partner. didn't you know, it's totally hip to have a queer sibling these days? totally.

i've already met two of michael's sisters, so this might be all the siblings that i'm actually going to meet. he has like 23049832049180394 of them, but only really talks to three. i think.

so tonight, at our little multi-generational gay dinner party in catonsville, i shall be on my best behavior. i'll smile and have a nice time and not get too drunk and not make any jokes about babymurder or burning crosses. it won't be easy, but i'm going to do it.

ashli ryon, you're a STAH!

ashli has been here all of two months and she's already SO SCENE. check out this week's ad for taxlo:bitch.

it's not a roach

everyone and their mom thinks that i have a roach on my shoulder now. as stephanie said, "yeah, i thought it was a roach, and i was like, wow that's some kind of determination for an allergy and asthma researcher."

mystery man (woman? child?)

i just got this email, which was addressed to me and a billion peabody early music people:

"Hi, All!

Thanks a lot for giving me wonderful days in Baltimore. I'm so happy to meet you all and work with. You all are so fantastic!!! I'll never forget you all! I'll miss you so much. I hope that we can meet again one day soon.

If you will come to Venice, please let me know!

Thanks again and I love you all!

DAISUKE"

daisuke is so nice. and now i have a place to stay in venice! the only problem is that i have no idea who he is.

monday bloody monday

it was a crazy, crazy weekend. a crazy, church-filled weekend. a crazy, rainy, church-filled weekend. the kind of weekend that it's suddenly 9:30 on sunday night and you can't figure out where the weekend went or why you're so tired. and i don't mean that it's 9:30 on sunday night and you're coming out of a crystal meth haze. i don't do that.

it was good to sing again, even if it was as a ringer in a catholic mass, standing next to a man that i affectionately named the foghorn. "i can't even hear you because of him," john turned around from the tenor section to tell me. "i can't even hear myself," i said. (insert snooty comments about hippy-ish catholic music here.)

now i must away to my job, back to the real world. back to meetings and explanations and no-show asthmatics and national institute of health visits and being broke. more later.

ink, part the second

by popular demand, pictures of my new tattoos (not to mention my hairy manchest).

the butterfly.

the roach. (just kidding. it's a bee.)

the layout.

powerhouses

whoa. NGLTF and HRC don't play well together, so when they feel so strongly about something that they'll issue a joint statement, something serious is going on.

cockroach

i was thinking this morning about my tattoos. i think about my tattoos a lot, i hate to admit, since i just got them a couple of weeks ago. but i do. they're kind of like my little under-my-shirt secret, since no one can see them unless i'm wearing a sleeveless shirt, which i don't often do at work. the ladies at the office would inevitably spend the whole day gazing at my bulging arms trying to feel them. not only would it be uncomfortable, it'd keep me from getting any asthma research done.

just.

kidding.

while i was getting coffee this morning, thinking about my new tattoos (multitasking), i started thinking about why i got tattooed. i've wanted to be inked since i was 17, so it was bound to happen at some point. and it had to happen before i hit 30, because it seems to me like if you don't have tattoos by the time you're 30 you should just go without. kind of like adult braces. if you've made it 30 years with crooked teeth or no tattoos, just keep going. you've only got like 50 years left, right?

was getting tatts the last way for me to claim my identity as the most deviant of the deviant? i mean, i'm already queer, which makes me an outsider. by not wearing abercrombie or trying to act "str8," by calling myself queer and getting a big ol' tattoos of butterflies and bees (or, as dan thought, a cockroach), am i just making myself all the more the "other?" i think maybe so. and being the queerest of the queer is kind of a fun place to be.

ear with feet, part the third

i don't want to sound cynical. don't laugh, i'm serious. and it's not that last night's tori concert wasn't awesome, because it was. it just didn't have the same effect on me that her concerts have when i've seen her in the past, and i'm surprised. this concert had major torifying potential: i was 12th row, at a beautiful outdoor venue, a light breeze, surrounded by queers and fat girls (totally my people), arm around my boyfriend.

i found my mind wandering, though. not always. some things that she played put me right back to the quivering (ew, what a gross adjective. so gross, in fact, that i'll keep it) freshman in college that i was the first time i saw her. when she played "cooling," for instance, the song that i used to fall asleep listening to on repeat, i got chills. and when she sang, "'cause things are gonna change so fast/all the white horses/have gone ahead" i teared up. i made sure michael nor the fat girl i was sitting next to saw me, but i did. i guess that's the power of her writing--vague little lyrical snippets that you can stamp your own experience onto.

i woke up this morning, though, thinking about the concert. what seems most strange to me is that my overall reaction to the show is so cynical. i'll just say it: last night it seemed like tori had propped herself up on stage and was doing what she had to do, instead of performing because she wanted to make art. it just didn't seem like she had the same...i don't know, fiery passion that she's always had when i've seen her in the past. she seemed to be phoning in the performance, as they say.

maybe, though, it's just because i'm older, more cynical, look for different things. maybe she was always nothing more than a showperson, and i needed her to be more so i looked past it. or maybe she's settled down.

or maybe, just maybe, she's just another singer and i'm taking this whole thing too seriously.

ear with feet, part the second

i'm going to see tori amos at the pier 6 pavillion here in baltimore tonight, and i am dorkily excited. absurdly excited. excited like i'm pretending that her last (2) album(s) didn't totally suck. like her last (2) album(s) weren't a sick combination of sarah mclachlan and dido without any of the passion of those two adult contemporary artists.

i'm excited like i was when i was 18 and i was seeing her for the first time at the murat theater in indianapolis. i'd planned my outfit for weeks--ridiculous, shiny polyester shirt imprinted with blue and green pastoral scenery--and led the caravan of depauw tori amos fans from greencastle to indianapolis. i went with my new friends amanda and alyson. it's strange to look back now, knowing what i know. i just went to alyson's wedding in june, amanda and i are planning a big move to new york later this year.

anyway, i'm dragging michael with me to see tori amos tonight. we have 12th row seats. it'll be the first time i've seen her solo. and i have butterflies just thinking about it.

doting, part the second

just in case i haven't convinced you to read mark doty's firebird yet, here's another quote that blew me away on the shuttle this morning.

on sexual (specifically gay) desire:

"the origins of sexual feeling don't interest me much; they seem permanently shrouded anyway, as resistant to explanation as any form of desire: why, exactly, do you like strawberries? from whence springs your affection for the cello, your attraction to blue? i don't mean to be facetious; it's merely that by the time desire manifests itself it is there, a fact of the self, one of our wellsprings. genetics, hypothalamus, environment, chance, some inscription encoded in the dna or the soul: your choice. or no choice; doesn't the need to understand the origins of desire arise from the impetus to control it?

a far more productive field of inquiry is the way in which sexual feeling makes itself known, and how we negotiate with our sense of desire, and with the dawning awareness of difference."

nostalgiarama

prompted by hilary's blog yesterday about WVU football and the ensuing conversation i had with michael about my college experience, i've been college-nostalgic today. it could be the slightly cooler temperature, the bent that the light seems to take, crisper, making you think that fall could be just around the corner.

it was, after all, seven years ago (seven years ago) this month that i started college at depauw.

i was wasting time on myspace, one of my favorite pastimes on slow work days, looking to see who from depauw/at depauw belongs to myspace. as i was scrolling through pictures, i saw the inevitable frat-boy-standing-with-arms-around-frat-brothers guy. seeing that he was wearing an SAE sweatshirt, i clicked on his profile.

when i was at depauw i was one of a handful of out queer people. i'd heard stories about the SAE house, the way some of their members had assaulted queer people, the atrocities against us they were blamed for. i avoided walking past the house; in four years i never went inside it.

today, looking at these frat boys standing together in their picture, smiling, they looked like little boys. these are the people i was so afraid of? i thought. the people i used to fear look like kids to me now.

kids whose ass i could totally kick.

feel the love

if it's a tasteless joke, it must be another...

FOREWARD FROM MY FATHER!

"A salesman was traveling through the country side, flogging insect repellent. He came to a farmhouse and tried his pitch on the farmer.

"Sir, my bug spray is so good you will never be bitten again. I guarantee it."

The farmer was dubious. "Young man, I'll make you a proposition.I'll tie you out in my cornfield buck naked, covered with that bug spray. If there is not a single bite on you come morning, I'll buy a whole case from you."

The salesman was delighted. They went to the field and he stripped. The farmer sprayed him thoroughly with the bug spray and tied him to a stake. Back to the house went the farmer. The next morning, the farmer and his family trooped out to the cornfield. Sure enough, the salesman was there, hanging in his bonds, not a single bite on him. Yet he was a total wreck! Pale, ghastly, haggard, and drawn, but not one bite on him. The farmer was perplexed.

"Son," he said, "Now, you don't have a bite on you but you look like hell! What the devil happened?"

The salesman looked up through bloodshot eyes and croaked,

"Doesn't that calf have a mother?"

oof

it might not seem that strange to anyone else, but someone in IRAN got to my blog by googling "fucking skills."

IRAN.

doting

i have to run down to the PCRU, the clinic in which i love lazing away my days, but i wanted to share a bit of mark doty's memoir firebird to start off your day.

on what he called his father when he was growing up:

"with my father it's simpler: we simply lack connection. he's a force on the horizon, but a distant one, like the sort of storm you see in the midwest, visible across uncountable acres of cornfields. maybe it will sweep in to give you trouble but probably not, not often. in my mind he is concerned with a particular universe of things that have to do with his work: shiny metal lunch box, domed like a vaulted chapel. drafting tools set precisely in leather cases, three-sided rulers for measuring what? shiny white hard hat. little red castle, two-towered, on a decal on the windshield of his government truck, emblem of the army engineers. mornings he eats shredded wheat soaked in milk from a tall drinking glass from a trip, sometimes he brings me something, some breakable little toy, reward for his absence. i manipulate him with expectation, make it clear that i will be so pleased to receive something (a "play-pretty," our term for toy, something i used to say as a baby) as a consolation, but i already know i don't need consoling. aftershave, boxer shorts, milk of magnesia in blue bottles: mostly i don't need to call him anything."

why i love this woman

you don't get more "paula deen" than this. elbow lickin' good, indeed.

kink

hilary talks about entering a contest to win a date with photographer/semi-famous blogger jake bronstein:

hilary: you have to help me plan something fun
hilary: so i get picked
robert: oh god in heaven
robert: i'll think.
hilary: i'm totally serious
robert: um, i know
robert: and that's what scares me
hilary: i'll tell him, as for the opera
hilary: i can sing for you
hilary: and that's our date
hilary: that's it
hilary: me singin in my apartment
robert: wow, fun
robert: minus the fun
robert: plus the creepy
hilary: and then we'll go to the eagle
robert: now THAT's a first date!
hilary: he said freak show would be oK!
robert: well the eagle is definitely a freak show
hilary: yup

dat's some custom shit

custom ribbons for your car?? brown crohn's awareness ribbon, here i come!

politico

let me preface this blog entry by saying that i'm not the most politically-informed person in america. i'm not even the second most politically-informed person. often, michael and i will be discussing politics/public policy/cultural theory/whatever and i'll suddenly find myself at a loss--it's not that i don't care about what we're discussing, i just have no solid information on which to base an argument.

then again, i only really read the baltimore sun's "today" and "food" and "arts and entertainment" sections. i listen to morning edition on NPR, but that's pretty much where it ends. so, that's my disclaimer.

michael just sent me a link for "buy blue," a campaign that seeks to tell consumers which companies have a good track record when it comes to supporting "liberal" causes and which ones are notorious for supporting the crazy right-wing agenda (ahem, wendy's). i'm all for spending my money in places that are going to respend it for causes i believe in--or at least not shopping at places who are trying to make sure that i can never get married or adopt children.

my problem with "buy blue" is that it's called "buy blue." i hate the delineation of "red state" versus "blue state" and everything that being a "red" or "blue" state implies. what scares me is that there's this ever-expanding rift between those on the right and those on the left. i feel like meeting in the middle is no longer an option--one either has to hate gay people or want to give them equal rights; one either has to be vehemently against abortion or in support of a woman's right to choose. there doesn't seem to be room anymore for a moderate conservative or a moderate liberal. my mother, for instance, used to consider herself a moderate conservative and "social" liberal, meaning that she's a rich white lady who wants to keep the money she earned but doesn't really hate black or gay people.

recently, though, she's subscribed to the national review and completely stopped listening to NPR because it's "too liberal." her only news source is this crazy-conservative magazine which she refuses to believe is at all skewed. if NPR is too liberal because it's critical of our government and openly supportive of equal rights for all citizens, i must be a fascist.

wait, do i mean fascist or socialist? see what i mean? i should never talk about politics.

next weekend's activities

george: philly?!
robert: haha
robert: yes, we're singing in frank's church
george: oh fun!
george: catholic?
robert: yes
robert: i was like
robert: i'll play guitar
george: lol
robert: hilary can play tambourine
george: but who'll bring the candles made of solid gold?
robert: no worries, i'll just melt down all those teeth i keep finding everywhere
george: ha ha

the marils

my beloved sister just sent me this picture:

with this message:

"hey rt.
little tipsy. jess brought me a new necklace from arhentina. bueno.
rs"

crazy runs in the family, people.

ass-whuppin

after a long hiatus, here's a forward from my father. frankly, the best way i discovered to "avoid a good southern ass whoopin'" was to move out of the south when i was 18 and never look back.

Fifteen Ways To Avoid A Good Southern Ass Whuppin?

Issued by the Southern Tourism Bureau to ALL visiting Northerners,
Northeasterners, North westerners, Westerners and Southwestern
Urbanites?

1) Don't order filet mignon or pasta primavera at Waffle House. It's
just a diner. They serve breakfast 24 hours a day. Let them cook
something they know. If you confuse them, they'll kick your ass



2) Don't laugh at our Southern names (Merleen, Luther, Tammy Lynn,
Inez, Billy Joe, Sissy, Clovis, etc.) or we will just HAVE to kick your
ass



3) Don't order a bottle of pop or a can of soda down here. Down here
it's called Coke. Nobody gives a flying rat's ass whether it's Pepsi,
RC, Dr. Pepper, 7-Up or whatever... it's still a Coke. Accept it.
Doing otherwise can lead to an ass kicking.



4) We know our heritage. Most of us are more literate than you (e.g.
Welty, Williams, Faulkner). We are also better educated and generally a
lot nicer. Don't refer to us as a bunch of hillbillies or we'll kick
your ass.



5) We have plenty of business sense (e.g., Fred Smith of Fed Ex, Sam
Walton, Turner Broadcasting, MCI WorldCom, MTV, Netscape). Naturally,
we do, sometimes, have small lapses in judgment (e.g. John Edwards, Al
Gore, Bill Clinton, David Duke). We don't care if you think we are
dumb. We are not dumb enough to let someone move to our state in order
to run for the Senate. If someone tried to do that, we would kick
his/her ass.



6) Don't laugh at our Civil War monuments. If Lee had listened to
Longstreet and flanked Meade at Gettysburg instead of sending Pickett up
the middle, you'd be paying taxes to Richmond instead of Washington. If
you visit Stone Mountain and complain about the carving, we'll kick your
ass.



7) We are fully aware of how high the humidity is, so shut the hell
up. Just spend your money and get the hell out of here, or we'll kick
your ass.



8) Don't order wheat toast at Cracker Barrel. Everyone will
instantly know that you're a Yankee. Eat your biscuits like God
intended with gravy. And don't put sugar on your grits, or we'll kick
your ass.



9) Don't fake a Southern accent. This will incite a riot, and you
will get your ass kicked.



10) Don't talk about how much better things are at home because
we know better. Many of us have visited Northern hellholes like Detroit
Chicago, and DC, and we have the scars to prove it. If you don't like
it here, Delta is ready when you are. Move your ass on home before it
gets kicked.



11) Yes, we know how to speak proper English. We talk this way
because we don't want to sound like you. We don't care if you don't
understand what we are saying. All other Southerners understand what we are saying, and that's all that matters. Now, go away and leave us
alone, or we'll kick your ass.



12) Don't complain that the South is dirty and polluted. None of
OUR lakes or rivers have caught fire recently. If you whine about OUR
scenic beauty, we'll kick your ass all the way back to Boston Harbor



13) Don't ridicule our Southern manners. We say sir and ma'am.
We hold doors open for others. We offer our seats to old folks because
such things are expected of civilized people. Behave yourselves around
our sweet little gray-haired grandmothers or they'll kick some manners
into your ass just like they did ours.



14) So you think we're quaint, or losers, because most of us live
in the countryside? That's because we have enough sense to not live in
filthy, smelly, crime infested cesspools like New York, Baltimore or
Boston. Make fun of our fresh air, and we'll kick your ass.



15) Last, but not least, DO NOT DARE to come down here and tell
us how to cook barbecue. This will get your ass shot (right after it is
kicked). You're lucky we let you come down here at all. Criticize our
barbecue, and you will go home in a pine box... minus your ass.

rubber lover

this is terrifying...

"First, the bad news: Forty percent of men in Baltimore tested positive and of those, 62 percent didn't know they were positive. Interestingly, in San Francisco, only 24 percent tested positive and of those, only 23 percent didn't know they were positive.

The take home message, more so in Baltimore than in San Francisco, is that you can't believe someone when they tell you they're negative. They could be lying but, just as bad, they could be telling the truth as they know it, and simply be wrong."

read the rest of the article here.

c'mon, people, pretend it's the early 90s and wrap that shit up!

hemingway...sike.

amidst another trip to the post office annex (!), this time successfully picking up my tori tickets, and craziness at work, i nearly forgot to tell all the 5's of 10's of you reading this blog that i was published in baltimore gay life again! here it is...



I’m old enough now that a lot of my friends are getting married. When I was first out of college and people I’d gone to school with were starting to get married it seemed so strange, so early.

“Well, I always knew that she wanted to do nothing but get married and sing in the church choir,” I snottily told my friends. After all, here I was living on the East Coast, working on my master’s degree, trying to make something of myself. I guess it never occurred to me that getting married and being the best singer in your church choir was an OK goal to have. It wasn’t good enough for me, so why should it be good enough for anyone else?

Now, though, my friends are getting married and it doesn’t seem so odd. We’re not kids anymore, and it makes sense that by the time you’re 25 or 26 you’ve found the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. I look around and suddenly I’m at the age where people are settling down, talking about having kids. The strangest thing is, I find myself right there alongside them.

I’ll just come out and say it: I want to get married. I don’t want to get hitched tomorrow or next year, or even necessarily before I’m 30. But I do want to get married. Going to these friends’ weddings made me feel something I never expected to: I want my own. All of it. Suits and family and friends and music and a reception. I went to a friend’s wedding earlier this summer, and for the first time I felt like I kind of got it. They weren’t getting married because they were expected to, or because they wanted a tax break (though I’m sure that was part of it). They were two people surrounded by 15 of their closest friends, their families standing proudly next to them. These people loved each other, and they were going to have a go at this marriage thing, whatever that meant.

At the same time, going to this wedding made me pensive. I stood aside, watching, knowing that even though I want the same thing that my friends had, a wedding with my family and friends giving us their blessing, I’ll never have it. I don’t say this because I want to sound hopeless; I say it because I know it’s true. My parents will come to my wedding (or my commitment ceremony, or whatever it’ll be called), but I can’t help but feel like they’ll be grinding their teeth the whole time. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are wonderful people who love, respect, and accept me, and I’ve been extremely lucky. I just suspect that they’ll see it as some sort of pretend ceremony, that they’ll be standing there supporting my decision to spend the rest of my life with the same man because they have to, kind of like they have to go to the dentist or spend money on gasoline.

Why does it even matter to me? Why have I experienced this sudden change in my attitude toward marriage? All through college I was diametrically opposed to gay marriage. I repeated the mantra of other radical queers: Getting married is nothing more than another way that gays are trying to assimilate into mainstream society, that we’re trying to buy acceptance from straight people by proving that we’re just like them. Why should queer people base our relationships and our lives on an outdated institution modeled after straights? I thought. We’re queer, after all, so our relationships should forge new territory, make new rules – or maybe exist without rules at all.

As I get older, though, I feel like I’ve begun to understand why gay people want to get married. It’s not just because of tax breaks, and it’s not because they want to show straight people once and for all that there’s more to gay culture than our sexuality. It’s because they’re with someone who they can’t imagine being without. Getting married isn’t a way of guaranteeing that they’ll never lose the other person, it’s a proclamation. They declare, The way I feel about this person is the way I’ve never felt about anyone before in my life. And I’ll stand here in front of all of you and say it.

I want to get married. I don’t know if it’s because I want the validation from my community and my family that a wedding might bring, or if it’s because I want the security of a husband. Or if it’s just because I want something that the government is telling me I can’t have. Whatever the reason, I’m going to have a wedding. But first I have to find the groom.

Robert is a classical singer, writer, and secretary who's proud to live in Baltimore, the gem of the bay. Learn more at http://reluctantreceptionist.blogspot.com.

humiliation

a classic case of oh no, that did not just happen to me:

i was leaving the one-person bathroom at my office after, ahem, using the bathroom, and the head doctor--the big-wig, the man in charge--opened the door as i was leaving, stuck one foot into the bathroom, and followed me out, saying, "oh, no, maybe i won't go in there."

happy crohnsday, to one and all.

crohnsday

i could 'blog today about how i went BACK to that horrid, horrid post office annex this morning, only to have them tell me that they can't find the hundred dollars' worth of tori amos tickets they supposedly held there. or i could 'blog about having three clinic visits, two of which happened at the same time, and being the only research assistant here. but i won't.

instead, i'll use today's 'blog to commemorate an important event in my life.

as i was walking out the door this morning, running late for my visit to the horrid, horrid post office annex, i realized that i'd forgotten to take my pentasa (my crohn's meds). i've been taking at least 8 pills a day (down from 16) for a while now. why on earth can't i remember to take my medicine? i thought. i mean, it's been...then it hit me. i was diagnosed with crohn's a year ago today.

a year ago, august 19, i was laying in a hospital bed, having been admitted to the hospital the night before. terry was periodically leaving work to check on me, and i was in a lot of pain yet at the same time wishing that i could just go home. i called my mom and dad from the hospital to tell them where i was but not to freak out. then, a year ago tonight, i had the pleasure of three nurse-administered enemas followed by my first colonoscopy.

now, a year later, i barely ever have the pain that sent me to the hospital. i've been lucky.

so...happy crohnsday, dearest bowels! these pills are for you.

is your child a homosexual?

when are people going to stop listening to "dr." james dobson?

speechless

gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

ok i have to go clean up.

INK

well, i've done it. after threatening to since i was 17 years old, i've gotten tattoos. no, i'm not kidding. i actually did it. i went to the tattoo parlor (well, it was actually the baltimore tattoo museum), laid down on the pleather couch, and breathed deeply, trying to remain calm while an electric torture device, also known as a tattoo needle, imbedded ink that will rot with my corpse.

ok, so that's too dramatic. it was actually a really fun experience. michael and i met for burritos in fell's point right after work then went to the tattoo museum. josh, the guy that did michael's "synchronicity" tattoo, was already waiting for me when i got there and showed me the design he'd come up with, based on what i'd brought him last week. i was really pleased with what he came up with--the size was perfect, the design was cool and stylized.

since i had to go in last week and make an appointment, i'd had plenty of time to mull over what i was doing. did i really want to put something on my body that's going to be there the rest of my life? it was kind of like the 7-day waiting period for buying a handgun. i also got most of the nerves out of my system before i went in; by the time i actually got to the tattoo parlor i just wanted to get it over with already.

i can honestly say that the pain wasn't nearly as bad as i'd imagined. don't get me wrong, there were bits of it that made me completely hate life and wonder what the fuck i was doing to myself...but for the most part it was fine.

what did i get, you ask? a yardstick. (that's a lie--as soon as they're healed i'll take some pics and post them.)

cheech

as if i needed an excuse to smoke pot.

another sister

in this month's classical singer magazine, audra mcdonald talks about having crohns!

"I had undiagnosed crohn's disease for years. i was finally diagnosed last year. for me, what's great is that i now have medication and i now have relief--whereas before there was this idea that i was just really sensitive, but i kept thinking: 'no, i'm in a lot of pain. it's not just that i'm an emotional person or something.' i'm healthier than i ever was, because i know what it is and i know how to treat it. as long as i have my health in order, the singing is fine. in some way, the crohn's forced me to get myself healthy."

first anastasia and now this? i guess it's just me and the divas!

speak of the devil

and speaking of terrible movies we saw last weekend...

the bigtime

woot! our friend tim nelson is featured in the baltimore sun.

it's just a shame he didn't ask me to do my special brand of "grotesque drag" this time around.

cripples. oh, god.

this weekend michael and i escaped the city...to another city. albeit, it was a much smaller city with much friendlier people, nicer roads, and free parking everywhere you looked--a magical land called durham, NC. we saw three gay movies at the north carolina gay and lesbian film festival. two were extremely bad--like, make-you-angry bad. find-out-the-director's-phone-number-and-prank-call-him bad. buy-a-camcorder-and-fire-up-imovie-because-apparently-anyone-can-be-a-director bad. we ran into the director of the second bad movie we saw, a high camp little number that pissed michael off more than it did me, at raleigh's gay bar that night. he was making googly-eyes at someone who was with us, we just couldn't decide who. maybe his eyes were just googly. the third movie we saw, the only good one, was a documentary about fire island pines; all it did was make me more desperate to get out there some summer while i'm still young enough to enjoy it. the problem is, being young enough to enjoy it also means that you're too young to afford it.

now, i'll relay a little story to you that i hope will make each and every one of you pity or even loathe me. as some of you may know, i'm on somewhat of a one-man mission to de-p.c. society just a little bit. not a lot--i understand that there's no room in our society for hate talk, that hateful talk leads to nothing but hateful actions. so i say things like "homo" instead of gay; "native american" instead of "first-nations people" or whatever they want to be called now. and, ok, so sometimes i call handicapped parking spots "cripple places." every time my grandparents said the word "cripple" i'd die laughing inside, and i do it more to be funny than anything else.

sometimes, though, it's not so funny. (foreshadowing!)

when we were at the bar on saturday night, someone came up to george's friend zach, who walks with a cane, and hit on him by saying, "you look really hot with that cane." YOU LOOK REALLY HOT WITH THAT CANE. i'm sorry, there are a lot of bad pickup lines, but that's not only a little offensive, it's creepy. ew. we were leaving the bar, all of us having had a few drinks, and were rehashing zach's suitor.

"could you believe that guy!?" i laughed. "'i'm really into cripples!'"

that's right, folks. cripples. not crippled, the verb. CRIPPLES. i'd meant to say "i'm really into canes." what'd i say, though? cripples. i called a handicapped person a cripple to his face.

"that's what you get for always saying those things jokingly," hilary told me. "it serves you right." i know.

never too late?? oh, thank god!

truer words have never been spoken...this and other new pictures here.

bring it

robert: well i'm not complaining
hilary: you better not
robert: ahem
hilary: i'll punch you in the face
robert: a
robert: hem
robert: i'd like to see you try
hilary: it's on!
robert: haha
robert: bring it, curly!
hilary: meet me at the bike rack
robert: bring the pain!
hilary: 3:00
hilary: DON'T be late
hilary: come alone
robert: i'm sorry i, have to work until 5 (-runs out the back door-)
hilary: hahaahha

get me out of here

first of all, let me say that i hope none of you ever have to go to the "post office annex" on east lexington street in baltimore, maryland. if you can figure out how to get there (the directions involve taking the moon shuttle to the moon, then back, then once again to the moon, then winking three times), then figure out how to get inside the damned place, then figure out who's actually working (patrons standing around tend to look just like employees standing around), you might actually get the package you've gone to pick up. since i'm somewhat of a spoiled brat (ok, so more than somewhat) i've only lived in highrises during my all-too-long stint in baltimore. therefore, i always have some fat front desk lady or friendly crack addict to sign for my packages. i've been ripped from my throne, though, and have joined the ranks of those who live in rowhomes. therefore, i go to the "post office annex."

michael and i are going to durham, nc tonight to visit george, visit michael's sister, and attend a few movies at the north caroline gay and lesbian film festival. north carolina? gay? i hear you ask. apparently, yes. according to george, the pink triangle (or whatever the combination of durham, raleigh, and...chapel hill (?) is called) has quite a bustling gay scene. we shall find out for ourselves this evening, and not a moment too soon. i've reached the boiling point with baltimore again--the heat, the attitude, the stink of my new apartment. i'm spending a day and a half amongst trees and gay southerners. what a welcome respite. (yes, i just looked up that word to make sure i'd used it correctly--and i did!)

now i will continue to try to drown out my office's new employee's gospel music and incessant personal phone calls with my own music. it's a fierce battle, but never fear. i'll win.

childrens

i'm going to be in the clinic all day today. literally, all day. no, really. all day long.

the strange thing is, the three participants that are coming in today are all really normal, sweet kids. i actually found myself looking forward to seeing them this morning. what's going on here? i've said it before and i'm sure i'll say it again: what's happening to me that i'm suddenly enjoying the company of children? apparently i'm a freak of nature, the only living man with a biological clock that ticks as loudly as a 36-year-old single woman's.

more later, when i have something to talk about.

oh, and if you're watching anything besides kathy griffin's my life on the d-list, you're wasting your time.

worth blogging

dearest craigslist, you've provided me with so many hours of at-work entertainment:

"LOOKING 2 START A Prof. BI/STR8/FAMOUS/DL/SAFE--------CLUB/GROUP - 26 GROUP
Date: 2005-08-09, 2:10PM EDT

HELLO
I am from NYC where there are many str8 / bi exclusive groups/clubs. 4 str8 , bi, married, famous men. Well I have moved to Baltimore for a short time an I am looking 2 maybe start it here. So if YOU ARE bi, str8, dl, married, or famous look 2 join. Everyone is and will be screened 4 everything including hotness. If interested send PICS an info. If u do not get a response then I am sorry. Best of Luck.
Baltimore Private Night"

a private group sex night for all of baltimore's queer and closeted famous men? this guy's either crazy or hasn't lived here very long. or both.

oh, and:

"Panera in Owings Mills eating lunch today--m4m--

You were with your friend (girl) eating lunch around noon time at Panera in Owings Mills. You had a black shirt on with Grey striped pants. I was with my friend (girl) and was wearing kaki pants with blue and white checked shirt. We made eye contact quite a few times. You were talking with your friend as my friend and I were driving by and our eyes met again. I am not sure what your situation is but you are a nice looking guy and it would be cool to maybe chat."

a gay guy who misspells the word "khaki?" what's the world coming to!?

a gay time in the woods

am i going here over labor day weekend? signs point to yes. this bitch needs a vacation.

L. Ron What!?

i know i've said this before, and i'm sorry if kirstie alley is reading this (having taken a break from promoting jenny craig), but scientologists is crazy. thanks, michael, for alerting me to this.

ear with feet

since my blog has apparently become nothing more than a prime opportunity to embarrass myself, i thought that i'd share with you a little snippet of something i wrote when i was 18: a review of the first tori amos concert i ever saw, and submitted to the dent (shout out to tori amos dorks everywhere!).

December 1, 1998: As I sit here, having returned to DePauw, I can hardly relate to you my feelings. I've been looking forward to this concert for weeks, as it's my first live Tori show. We arrived about an hour early, found our seats, and were elated to see how tiny the Murat was. Even halfway back on the floor, I could see every motion of Tori...When she did finally come out (at 9:05) she began with an incredible rendition of "Precious Things." I've read about the "Girrrrrrrl" part a lot on the Dent, but seeing the actual "crotch-grab" was stunning. For the rest of the show I beamed, danced, and nearly sobbed. [that's right, people, 18-year-old robert nearly sobbed] Tori performed so many songs that are very special to me, "Northern Lad" being the most prominent (I'm sure it was this way for many Toriphiles!). Another high point of the main show was "Etienne." It's wonderful that she still sings songs from her Y Kant Tori Read days. I was ecstatic at how many early songs and b-sides Tori performed this evening. It was really a gift to hear so many of my favorite songs, backed up by a really tight, driving band. Her choice of encores couldn't have been more perfect. Beginning with Talula, followed by Raspberry Swirl (a version that sounded much like the Lip Gloss) the first encore was a get-out-of-your-seat-and-dance blast. Her second encore included a cover song that I'm guessing is called something like "When Sunny gets Blue" melded with a heart-wrenching "Famous Blue Raincoat," the Leonard Cohen song that has become one of my favorite Tori covers. Ending with "Pandora's Aquarium" gave the concert a very complete feel, as if it had come full-circle from the "Spark"-like drum intro at the beginning to the last track of Choirgirl. Overall, I'm floored by Tori's energy and communication with her audience. I knew she had it, but seeing it live has only cemented my devotion to this woman. It kills me to know that this is the end of the tour, but I understand that, after 9 months of touring Tori needs a break! It can't be easy to bear that much of your soul night after night."

once you get past the cheesiness of this writing, and the fact that i seemed to have chosen the most "EXCITING!!!!" adjectives possible, i think that there's something kind of touching about it. i can still remember sitting down at my desk in longden residence hall at depauw, fresh home from the tori concert, excitedly writing that email to mikewhy over at the dent. it seems ridiculous to me now, how intense i was in my love for tori amos. but this review is so sincere, so...what's the word i'm looking for...wide-eyed, that it reminds me that i wasn't always this cynical. close, but not quite.

it also makes me wonder, will i look back at the writings i produce now, both for gay life and on this blog, and cringe? will i think to myself, "god, you were so naive/fresh-faced/soul-baring!" or will i look at my writings at age 32 and let these documents be a marker of the person i was at the time, a permanent reminder that i was here? i hope so.

you told me those pictures would never see the light of day!

lest i ever forget some of the fucked up shit i've done in my life, my dear friend anne decided to send this lil' picture of me to hilary via myspace. a bit of explanation, i think, is in order.

in high school my friends and i had a fake rock band named "two euro chix and co." we all had parts to play--anne and bri were the two euro chix, because they were aryan. i was "ze gay boy," who played keyboards. shawna was "ze injun," i believe, and our friend kristi was "ze jew" (pronounced chew), whose only job was to bring us coffee.

this photo was from our promotional photoshoot. i must've taken a long enough break in my busy smoke-cigarettes-drink-bottles-of-robitussin-fall-in-love-with-straight-friends schedule to have a photo taken.

live from the scene

where do i begin writing about this weekend? like most of my weekends this summer, it was full of "plans." well, full of plans and booze. that seems to be the theme of the summer--planned activities soaked with gin.

friday, the troops (george, tom, hilary, ashli, and michael) went up to frank's house in philadelphia for the playboy-grotto pool party. on the way there, we were wondering if there would actually be a grotto. or even a pool. with tom's penchant for exaggeration ("it was the biggest cock i've ever seen; i am not lying to you."), i had horrible visions of standing around in my speedo with hilary in her chiffon wrap and heels next to a kiddie pool, frank's italian construction-company-owning father glaring at us. luckily, it didn't turn out anything like that. frank's house is, in fact, gargantuan and surrounded by gorgeous countryside; his pool does, in fact, look like the playboy mansion grotto. let's just say it has a hot tub that flows, waterfall-like, into the 80-degree swimming pool below. yeah. it's that kind of pool.

so it was a bunch of homos and their straight girlfriends, gettin' drunk while swimming. wonderful. i'd like to blame my entirely too-intoxicated state on the heat of the hot tub, but i probably just drank too much. "i swear, i only remember drinking four drinks!" it's true. anything i drank after that...well...

i abhor blacking out--it's something that's only started happening since i reached adulthood. in college i was a puker--if i binge drank and pushed myself too hard, too fast, i'd just puke. anymore, though, it's like my body's gotten used to it. "you wanna drink to excess?" it says. "fine. but you won't remember it." let me save this entry (and hopefully my reputation) by saying it doesn't happen that often. only once a weekend, if that. just kidding.

a few funny drunken-robert episodes i have the pleasure of not remembering:

• heavily flirting with tom's friend from boston, to the point that he probably thought he was getting some
• crouching at the foot of my bed, ready to jump into it, while screaming "TURN OFF THE LIGHTS!"
• humping hilary in the hot tub
• humping ashli in the hot tub (?)

ok, that's all i can write. i'm ashame-ed.

yesterday we fulfilled a multiple-year-long plan to go tubing in west virginia. i named it "michael and robert's field day with the ryon family." it was crazy, lazily floating down that rocky river. and now...back to being a secretary.

bad education

i know it's hard to believe, but i don't really play the drums. i look so comfortable behind the 'skins,' though, don't i?

debauched

it was quite a weekend. find more photos here.

downhome

EW!! ew.

"it gels in its own marrow," people! god help us.

"culture"

looks like a porn director hates jai as much as i do...

carrie bradshaw strikes again

i had another column published in baltimore gay life today! dorkily enough, i never stop getting excited about it. enjoy...or not...

Packrat

I've never been good at letting things go. Ideas, memories, people, things: I just seem to hold on to them as long as I can, until I forget them or they break or they're given to Goodwill by my mother. This past weekend, therefore, wasn't easy for me: I moved from my current apartment, the one I shared with my most recent ex, to a new one (across the street). I said goodbye not just to my roommate and ex, but also to my friends Tom and Brian, both of whom decided to move away on Saturday. I took ownership of a new apartment and spent three days sorting through years of belongings, my boyfriend wondering the whole time why I still had a t-shirt from eighth grade, a shirt that I wouldn't even consider wearing anymore but have now boxed up and moved four times.

I can't explain why I hang on to possessions the way I do. I'm not one of those people you see on Oprah, their houses filled floor to ceiling with refuse. I don't have children in their mid-20's who write letters to Oprah then bombard me with television cameras while I'm doing laundry or getting out of bed, the television audience laughing and covering their mouths, gasping for breath, horrified and amused by the decades of filth I have in my house. The way I collect
things is more subtle. The things I choose to keep aren't egg cartons or old razors. I collect things that most people wouldn't notice: I only wear a fraction of the clothes in my closet; I haven't used the coffee pot that I just rescued from the garbage in two years.

Why do I hold on to things like this? Having to pack it all up in boxes, preparing for my big move across the street, I've had lots of time to think about it. It's because I attach memories to things. I know that I'm supposed to live in the now; I know that worldly possessions only hold me down, and that material things like shirts and coffeepots don't matter in the long run. Let me give you an example. That Budweiser ringer-tee that I haven't worn in three years? It was given to me by my college roommate's boyfriend who was too big to fit into it. I was wearing it the second time I hung out with the man I spent college dating. I stood next to a reservoir, flirting with him while he played with his golden retriever. I wore it while I rested my head on my best friend's stomach, laying under atree in a cemetery at dusk in Indiana. If you were to show me most of the clothes in my closet, I could tell you not only where I got them, but also several things that happened to me while I was wearing them.

I know that this all sounds just a little too Miss Havisham for my own good; that a 25-year-old urbanite shouldn't spend so much time dwelling in the past. I don't dwell in the past, honestly, but throwing away certain possessions would be like closing chapters of my life. It almost seems as if getting rid of something is like throwing away the memory that I associate with it.

I faced this issue again this weekend as I was moving, but on a much grander scale. I looked around the apartment, which had just been painted back to white (you know, we just had to decorate), and it looked so strange. It was empty--a place that held so much life and promise, a place that had felt more like home to me than anything has since I left my parents' house, had become any other apartment, ready to be filled with another person's life.

I started to get upset--I was sad for the lover I'd had while I lived there and for the friends who had passed through, the same ones I now find scattered across the East coast. And I was sad thinking that it was all as if this home had never existed. The next person to live in that apartment will never know that it was the place I felt safest, and they'll never know the joy or pain that happened there.

"I just feel so frustrated," I told Michael, the man I'm dating, yesterday. "I feel like I'd come so close to building a home and now I have no choice but to start over."

"You already have," he said.

just stand still already, or: my patented brand of bitchery

this morning the shuttle was incredibly crowded. i don't know what the deal was--i guess some hopkins undergrads at homewood decided they wanted to see what "real" baltimore was like. i'll watch the news later for reports of dead 19 year olds. whatever the reason, i barely got onto the shuttle even though i was only the seventh person in line. the guy that was in front of me in line, a man i see all the time sweating his fat ass off at the gym (i promise, i'm drinking my coffee as we speak), was a mover. you know the kind of guy i mean--even though he's just standing in line he's on the move. back and forth, front and back. move move move. twitch twitch twitch. i'm not the nicest person in the morning, and watching this man flop himself around the bus stop like he was in competitive ballroom dancing nearly made me scream.

we got onto the bus and were literally packed in like sardines or mexicans in the trunk of a car illegally crossing the border. let's just say it was crowded. the twitchy man was standing right behind me on the packed bus--and continued moving around. it wasn't movement that the bus caused, oh no. we'd be stopped at a light and i'd feel the man bumping into me. getting a little too friendly. was he just excited to get to work? did he need to pee? who knows. i wanted to turn around and scream, "JUST STAND STILL, ALREADY!" i got off the bus just in time.

dangers of the job

robert: she also puked into the biohazard bag

frank: Well, we all have our workplace hazards.

frank: OH PARISH SECRETARY AND MAINTENANCE MAN ARE FIGHTING THROUGH A NEXTEL WALKY TALKY... see... you have your hazards.. i have mine.

robert: does it invovle a little black girl puking into a biohazard bag?

frank: hang on let me ask...
frank: No, a toddler shitting in a pew.
frank: Close enough.

robert: HA

boiyoing

oh. my. dear. god. in. heaven.

"faggot!"

i don't know what's going on, but i keep getting called a faggot lately.

now, it's not like the ladies at work are whispering about me at their cubicles or bus drivers are sneering at me when i board the bus. but in the last two weeks i swear that i've been verbally hate-crimed four or five times. this is very unusual for me, because even though i always feel like i'm a conspicuous homosexual i'm very seldom actually threatened or yelled at. however, in the last couple weeks i've had incidents: a teenage boy yelled "fire!" at me (i was prepared to ignore it, as i prefer to spend my life oblivious to such things, when michael explained to me that yelling "fire" is the jamaican way of saying that gay people should be set on fire, as they do in jamaica. apparently this kid was listening to some rastafarian rap that taught him the phrase.); some drunk, ugly 19-year-old hopkins students rolled down their windows at a stop light to verbally harrass michael and i and then call me a faggot.

let me explain this one, as it's bizarre enough to warrant explanation: we were on our way home from hilary's house, where we'd just finished watching a rousing episode of reno 911, and were at a stoplight by the hopkins campus. michael made a motion for me to roll down my window, and i looked over to see two hopkins undergrads riding in their mother's station wagon. assuming they wanted directions or something (you don't wanna get lost in baltimore) i rolled down my window. the drunk driver flashed me a "west side" gang sign. wanting to play it cool, i told him, "you really shouldn't do that in baltimore. you'll get killed." "are you gay?" was his response. i was dumbfounded. in hindsight i should've said something like, "why, are you looking for a cock to suck?" but i didn't. i just rolled up my window and did my best to ignore him. when we drove away, michael said, "i'm surprised that you didn't get out of the car and get in his face. whenever someone calls me a faggot that's my first response." i didn't know until then that the noises i heard them making after i'd rolled up my window were the sounds of rich white undergrad boys calling me a faggot.

what's the deal here? michael claims that it's because our social climate is becoming so unfriendly to gay people. it's true that there's been a backlash, and that the fake-puritanical american ideal is in full force these days. but can things really have changed that much in the last two weeks? did someone pass some sort of it's-ok-to-hate-crime-punky-faggots bill when i wasn't looking? please, help me figure this out.

buhwha?

yet another mavelous craigslist post:

"Ten Hung Guys - 35
Date: 2005-07-31, 9:22AM EDT


I'm looking for ten guys to join me for one year of celibacy. If you're hot and hung (I am), it will make the journey all the more exciting. Let this be the opportunity to open a whole new life for yourself; one that isn't dominated by fantasy and endless self-indulgence. I want ten e-mail from you guys within the hour, and then our journey begins. Oh, and btw, I've got enough stories about the hundreds of horny bottoms I've plowed over the years to keep us all entertained for months."

homasexuls

george just informed me--out of nowhere, because i thought he'd just started it--that i'm getting a copy of my next set of songs, we two boys, TOMORROW! it's the first time that i've had such an active hand in the creation of art. well, at least since i gave up weaving in the sixth grade. ben wrote the texts, george wrote the music, and i'm premiering it.

god, it's rough having an up-and-coming american composer writing things just for you. seriously. rough.

update:

george, the composer himself, on the new work:

Noiler: yup. glad i got that out of the way...
robbi607: me too
robbi607: god i'm excited
Noiler: haha... well wait til you see it. maybe after reading the stage direction "begin to pee on violinist while stage whispering" you won't be sooo excited
Noiler: but i sure as hell will be
robbi607: hahahaha
robbi607: "you prick"
Noiler: we two boys 2: watersports
robbi607: you are a sick individual

long + random = great blog

i slept in my apartment for the first time last night. i can say two good things about sleeping there: the mattress i got at ikea was wonderful (it should be, it cost 350 bucks at IKEA) and it is dark as a cave in my bedroom. literally. i turned off the light last night and was taken aback by the darkness. it's the kind of darkness and quiet that you have to go to the country to find; or a basement. or, even better, a basement in the country. i would've slept like the dead except that i'm feeling like i have a cold. do i really have a cold, though, or is it because my apartment is old? the 30-year-old carpet has to contain allergens out the wazoo. i guess i'll just have to sleep in an allergy mask to find out.

i had a mild freak-out last night while cooking dinner. the gas range in my small apartment was making the place really hot even though it has central a/c. i looked around and saw the huge mess all over my living room: boxes, both empty and full, stacked everywhere; so much fake-birch ikea furniture that you can't get to the computer or the tv that i haven't even bothered hooking up yet. when i got a phone call from tom, who said that his apartment felt a little lonely, it was just the last straw. by the time michael got to my apartment to hang out last night, i'd given up trying to unpack and was standing in my kitchen in tears. sweating, because that's what i do. i sweat.

i've just been having a hard time with this latest adjustment: terry leaving, tom leaving, george being gone, peter being gone, hilary living 15 minutes away, leaving the apartment i loved, living alone again...it's just all been a bit much. but i have things to look forward to: this weekend, for instance, includes a big, gay pool party and tubing in west virginia. and next weekend, i go with michael to durham for a queer film fest and to see george and michael's sister. now if i could just find a way around this pesky day job...

OH, and hilary got us a gig singing musical theater songs for some old people in late october. she suggested i sing "i enjoy being a girl" and "i'm just a girl who cain't say no." or that we sing "people will say we're in love" and then laugh at the end. i suggested that i just hang a sign around my neck that reads "just kidding, everyone! i'm gay!!" or maybe i'll wear a pink thong. i'm taking suggestions...

vacay

WHAT!?

doomcore

after seeing that michael was mainly "night goth" or something like that, i took the quiz myself.




And that's all I've got to say about that.

What kind of goth are you?

Created by ptocheia

yeah, no shit i'm not goth. and apparently i love donuts. oh wait i do love donuts.

a list

i'm back at work. it was a harrowing three day weekend to say the least. monday was intended to be the day that i took off work and recovered from the move. you know, maybe catch a matinee, cook dinner in my new apartment for the first time. ha. that's all i have to say to that. ha. i didn't actually finish moving all my shit (and goddamn does it turn out that i have a lot of shit) into the new apartment until yesterday. before i left i made sure to make cat-urine-sized stains all over the carpet just to make sure that terry doesn't get his pet deposit back (har har, just kidding, terry. no i'm not.).

here's what i did this weekend, in bullet form:

• moved my furniture and boxes, with the help of my dear friends hilary, nakia, michael, and terry
• moved terry's furniture and boxes (my stuff times a million but heavier) with the help of terry's dear...bad-hipped father
• went to the farmers' market but didn't buy anything because i forgot i didn't have any cash
• spent $600 at ikea
• spent $228 at target
• spent $5 on a hooker (ew, no, gross)
• organized, organized, and organized
• broke my new coffee press the first time i tried to use it
• put together ikea furniture
• missed the comcast man by 20 minutes so i can't have people over to watch the season finale of blowout tonight
• said goodbye to tom (dc), terry (chicago), and brian fountain (chicago)
• cried
• cried
• wiped my eyes
• cried
• ate mexican food, ate panera bread, ate three donuts at a time, ate, ate, and ate
• thanked michael for his help 19,828,340,941,823 times and every time he replied "no problem, babe," instead of "shut up" or "i'm breaking up with you"
• drank alcohol like it was water, which i should've been drinking instead
• burned nag champa incense incessantly to try to drown out the "strange, sour" smell of my new apartment
• hoped that the "strange, sour" smell wasn't caused by a dead body, dead rodent, generally anything dead
• wrote a fairly good (well, kind of good) column in under two hours
• sweated
• avoided shaving
• ok, so avoided any kind of personal hygeine whatsoever
• wore the same smelly t-shirt, shorts, and socks for three days running
• cried
• blogged

and, that brings us to tuesday morning. thank god it's a four-day week because michael and i both took off yesterday. if i can make it through tuesday, wednesday, and thursday, i'll know it's friday. and friday's the day of frank's ultra-sick debaucherous playboy mansion-style grotto pool party in philly. hilary's wearing a swimsuit with stillettos and a chiffon wrap. michael and i are wearing speedos.

bring it.

what a relief

i cannot believe i nearly forgot to write about this:

i was getting gas yesterday in west baltimore before i drove to annapolis to meet michael's sister ursula. as i was standing there, mild-manneredly pumping gas into my car, i glanced over at the man at the pump in front of me. he started to do something that looked like adjusting his low-riding jeans. that's fairly normal--you have to pull 'em up a lot or you'll have your ecko's around your ankles.

he wasn't pulling up his jeans, though, no. he was PULLING THEM DOWN. he's not going to do it, i thought. but yes. yes he was. he glanced furtively around the gas station, turned toward his opened car door, and i saw a steady stream of urine start to pool around his feet then run off to the right toward the drain. he shook it dry, pulled up his trousers, and got back in his car and drove off.

i saw a man pee next to his car at a gas station today. i need to move away.

il est fini

dennis asked me today when i plan on blogging about terry and i moving. i'm in the process of writing a column about it, actually (which is good, seeing as the column's due to the editor by the end of the business day), but i feel like i've said all i can really say about it. i've been saying it, really, since february 29th. but i'll say this.

thank you, terry, for:

1. trying to make me a cleaner person and failing miserably
2. teaching me the true meaning of a dry sense of humor
3. introducing me to the word "capase"
4. eating the food i cooked, whether or not it had vinegar and mustard in it
5. teaching me that a human can survive a methane gas explosion
6. coming home from work because i'd walked up to my car to find it totaled
7. spending countless hours with my new boyfriend
8. teaching me that if you don't know how to pronounce a word in french, just sound it out (marseilles = mar-sales)
9. introducing me to your frat brothers and having me hang out with "the girlfriends"
10. showing me that not all 70's straight-boy bands are bad (oh, wait)

and thank you for your quiet, your patience, your love. it was a good run and i'll see you again.

there, dennis, now the world knows what i have to say about terry and i moving. and i've gotten all personal again.