Monthly Archives: August 2003
At Thursday’s cheerleading practice, I threw round-off back handsprings and round-off back tucks for the first time since breaking my hand. My form wasn’t the cleanest, but by the end of practice I’d lost count of how many I’d thrown.
I think the whole recalling Gray Davis thing is ineffably stupid, but it would almost be worth it just to see how Arnold Schwarzenegger would go about implementing this [tragically, the link to the MP3 of Gov. Schwarzenegger's saying he thinks "gay marriage is something that should be between a man and a woman" is dead, and I can't find it anywhere else--if anybody has it anywhere, please email me]. (It’s safe for work, but you have to have the sound on.)
N.B.: Some people have suggested that this is a fake, but CNN disagrees.
I am being driven mad by the recent mouse infestation in my apartment. The people who lived above us were apparently slobs, and their apartment was full of mice; now that they’ve moved out and the apartment is being renovated, all the mice are leaving the noise and turmoil of upstairs and coming to stay with us. We’re like the mouse Hamptons. Or perhaps the mouse Fire Island (depending on the proclivities of the mice involved).
At the beginning of the week, the super gave me a bunch of glue traps. Since then, I have apprehended and disposed of six mice. There are at least three still at large, and perhaps a great many more.
At first I worried alternately that I was damaging my karma and that there would be no one to help me get dressed to go to the ball after I’d helped my wicked stepsisters get ready. I felt very bad.
That was Monday.
Now I just want the fuckers dead and gone.
Many people are actually surprised to hear that there’s a large and thriving Jewish community in my hometown of Charleston, South Carolina. In fact, Charleston was the home of the first Reform congregation in America, and Jews in Charleston have done a remarkable job of adapting their traditions to those of the community in which they live—perhaps too good a job.
For example, there’s the matter of Bar Mitzvah presents. (For those of you who aren’t in the know, a Bar Mitzvah is the ceremony at which a thirteen-year-old becomes a man in the eyes of Jewish law.) Traditional Bar Mitzvah presents around the country include books, money, whatever one might want to give a thirteen-year-old.
In Charleston, the traditional Bar Mitzvah present is a mint julep cup.
For my Bar Mitzvah I received no fewer than seven pewter or silver mint julep cups.
I mean, I’m all for when in Rome do as the Romans and all, but still, something about equating manhood with becoming a total lush makes me wonder.
In any case, we used all seven of them in a production of Sweeney Todd I was in in college and I haven’t seen a single one since.
Today is an administrative issues day.
1. I’m always honored when somebody links to me, and I try to keep track and return the favor, but sometimes I get confused (by “sometimes” I mean “every day”) and forget. So if you’ve linked to me and don’t see your blog in my sidebar, e-mail me and I’ll rectify the situation posthaste.
2. I’m planning a new sidebar with a collection of “the Best of the Search for Love in Manhattan” posts. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, or have plunged into the archives, and have a favorite post or posts, e-mail me and let me know.
3. If you pledged to sponsor me in the Blogathon and have not yet heard from the Blogathon people about how to make your donation, please e-mail me and let me know. I’ll send you the necessary information. The Blogathon people remain curiously silent on this issue.
As far as the promised free sex, you’ll have to wait until my lower back is no longer in agony from cheering at Jersey Pride yesterday. But then, I swear, I’m all yours.
Okay, I never, never, never do this but here are the results of the online quiz I took about what my medieval name would be.
Your medieval name is: Magdalen. Out of conformity
and inducing sexual meaning, you’re seductive
and passionate, silent until spoken to and only
violet when provoked. Gorgeous and mysterious,
you’ve got it all.
I think “violet when provoked” needs to be my new headline for online dating profiles.
I am such a fag.
I saw Freaky Friday last night and cried like a baby during the next to last scene.
I mean, Jamie Lee Curtis. Come on.
It’s funny how, after two years, your ex and you can still make each other cry.
Ha ha. Ha ha ha.
Tonight, the cheerleaders practiced outside at the piers in Chelsea. We were practicing a part of the routine during which I go up in a half-extension; on one particular go-round, my group, thinking that we were only marking the stunt, failed to put it up, while the other two groups succeeded. We had gathered something of a crowd, and one more vocal member of our audience shouted to us, “Why didn’t he go up?” I foolishly attempted to explain that we hadn’t known I was supposed to, but she interrupted me and shouted, “Is he too big to go up?”
I can’t really remember a time when my desire to grow long sharp nails instantly, so as to be able to rake bloody gashes into somebody’s face, has been quite so burning and intense.