First of all, I want to thank everybody who sent me submissions for the Blogalike Contest. Some of them sounded so much like me that I wondered if I was actually setting up e-mail accounts in my sleep and e-mailing myself entries for my own contest. (I tried and tried and tried to come up with an equivalent for “somnambulate” that meant “write while sleeping”; the closest I could come, however, was “somniscribe,” which was just revolting.) But in the end this whole exercise nourished my ego so much that I find myself not even minding that some of you write more like me than I do.
In any case, without further ado, here are the entries. Please vote, in the comments, for the one you think I wrote. The person who gets the highest number of votes will win a gift certificate to Powell’s City of Books, unless I happen to get the highest number of votes, in which case the gift certificate will go to the person who gets the second-highest number of votes. My only request is that you refrain from saying mean things about entries you think aren’t mine. (You can say things as mean as you want about the entry you think is mine.)
Today I caught the subway to my new gym. I ceased attending my previous gym because the nice boy from Laurel, Mississippi began attending my spin classes. He wasn’t, as I am, reluctant to reveal publicly the details of our previous meeting to anyone and everyone.
As I boarded the train a rather ungainly, enormously fat woman boarded with me, muttering like she had Tourette’s syndrome. As would be my fortune, she decided to stand next to me. I spent the entire ride trying to avoid her flabby parts bumping into me, lucky I’ve been practising my tumbling as it came in handy.
To add the day’s misfortune, I asked E.S. to tape the Golden Girls special on HBO last night while I was at gay cheerleading squad practice, I have returned to the cheerleading squad for the glory of attending the upcoming Gay Olympics, and because they begged me. E.S. had to set the VCR in between studying life saving techniques for his final the following day. I really don’t see why this would have been difficult, learning CPR and using a VCR would seem one and the same. I had asked E.S. to use the VCR as my Tivo has been behaving rather oddly lately, it seems to think I like rodeos, while I don’t mind the odd hot cowboy, I have not ever in my life enjoyed watching grown men ride bulls.
This evening I sat down with a hot chocolate and my dog A. to watch the three hour Golden Girls special, only to find myself watching the Republican Convention for the 2004 election! My horror at reliving the event was only mildly assuaged when I noticed Donald Rumsfeld on stage with his fly undone.
Apparently I am not quite as clever as I sometimes know I am. Or so E.S. would leave me to believe after a brief conversation we had last evening about the entries for my Blogalike Contest, also known as the self-serving shrine to my ego.
I had asked how he thought others would try and mimic my oh-so-original writing style. After reviewing and agreeing on several of the more obvious accoutrements that a duplicitous entry might contain, we parted ways about whether or not naming individuals via their initials would be a likely technique appropriated.
Being justifiably proud of the algorithm that serves as the foundation for this way of preserving others’ anonymity, I suggested most entries would likely consider this route and include an initialed I.D. or two. After all, it is a clever conceit most other bloggers do not use as artfully.
With a verbal admonishment that physically would have turned my cheek red, E.S. had the audacity to suggest my approach is not particularly sophisticated at all.
Perhaps he has a point.
Truly clever would most definitely include all three initials masking any individuals being named . . . just as they would be found on the 100% Egyptian combed cotton bath sheets hanging on the heated rack in any self-respecting homosexual’s bathroom.
I have previously mentioned that one of the few and yet highly lamentable downsides of having a boyfriend in the first year of his medical residency is the loneliness I suffer during E.S.’s overnight stays at the hospital. You can imagine my excitement when I hit upon a way to alleviate my anguish: the documentation of our bedroom activities for later perusal at my leisure. As a bonus, any materials produced could provide an inexpensive alternative to my recent patronage of TLA Video, which has reminded me that we gay men are charged appreciably more for our onanistic aids than our heterosexual brethren. E.S., as is so frequently, surprisingly, and wonderfully the case, was game. After the procurement of my brother’s digital camera (allegedly to be used for “landscape photography”), a photo shoot was quickly arranged and went off without a hitch.
E.S. and I almost instantly uploaded the photos to his computer, at which point I came to a terrible realization.
The entire idea was a disastrous mistake.
And I need to go on a diet immediately.
I love taunting Goths. Or one Goth in particular. His name is Andy and he insists that he is not Gothic, but rather Industrial. Apparently this is similar to the difference between a chardonnay and a Gewurztraminer. They both look like white wine, and taste like white wine. But one’s slightly more pretentious. Andy’s 26 going on 13, and likes nothing better than to wear black with a silver finger claw to offset it. I’m equally enthralled and amused by his stroppy moods, and tend to play with his emotions like a cat might play with a slightly dazed moth. Not that I’m jealous of the attention his weirdness gets. Not one little bit.
Last night, I was there at the traffic cross-junction with K.T. and fyi, K.T. is a straight-like-ruler guy who wasn’t even aware I am gay, and might even be homophobic for all I know; I never probe though.
Strangely enough, I was there to provide a listening ear. He just broke up with his girlfriend, and out of his numbing grief, he questioned about love. I wasn’t even prepared.
“Faustus, do you sometimes wish that you are in a relationship?”
I pondered and dug deep to say something worthwhile, and replied, “Yes, but I don’t see myself getting a girlfriend anytime soon.”
I drove my point deeper, “I crave a relationship, but I don’t want a girlfriend.”
He furrowed his brows and quipped,
“You sound like…”
At that very moment, I thought he was going to say ‘gay’. I braced for the word.
“…like my ex.”
He missed my drift. I hate myself.
Last night, I got a call from the gym’s fitness manager. At first I was hoping he was telling me that the open cardio sculpt class that I had done before was now mine thanks to a seemingly spectacular performance on my part. Then the dread that in fact I wasn’t going to get the spot eventually took over and I spent the majority of the phone call holding my breath waiting for him to tell me I had the job.
No, he just wanted me to sub in another cardio class as that instructor was stuck in Florida as her flight back from her vacation in Miami was canceled. I wanted to ask about the cardio sculpt class I had done before and whether or not I would be leading a worshipping mass of people into better physical condition on a regular basis but I held off lest I appear to be as desperate as I felt at that moment. I opted for the more optimistic viewpoint that he wanted me to audition one more time and then I would have my own raving mass of exercisers willing to do my bidding with the simple yell of “Double quads!”
My raving mass was a whopping eight people. Again, I took the hopeful stance that it was because everyone else who normally takes this class was already at work and had done the earlier cardio sculpt class which, naturally, draws the larger crowd or, perhaps, the oppressive heat had kept everyone indoors. Regardless of the circumstances, I had eight people ready to do my bidding and with the 80s dance mix a mere play button away, I was ready to go.
Things were going smoothly and even I was impressed with myself and how I was handling the class. Of course, it’s at the moment when I’m the proudest of myself that fate has to come up and bitch slap me across the face. Just after I shouted out, ‘Grapevine left!” and pointed the class in the direction we were to go, the toe of my right foot caught the back of my left heel.
I fell. In front of my class. The group that I was to turn into my exercising robotic slaves performing at my will. I wanted the floor to open up, swallow me whole, and spare me the embarrassment of having to stand up and look at my class in the mirror and come up with some explanation for how I, their entrusted leader, could do something so graceless as fall. Of course, I couldn’t just lay there for the next fifty minutes so I slowly got up and kept going with the routine. Somehow I managed to squeak out, ‘Now you know why my figure skating career failed.”
At least they thought it was funny.
Today I am the happiest man on earth.
This is because I just found out that The Golden Girls is being released on DVD. It’s just the first of seven seasons, so it’ll be a while before I have all 175 episodes (at which point I will host a marathon), but still–my heart is leaping for joy within my breast.
Furthermore, it occurs to me that this may be just the impetus I need to finish the Golden Girls version of Clue that my ex N.T. and I started developing. The characters were the four girls, of course, as well as Dorothy’s Eastern European cousin Magda, who visited the girls and fell in love with capitalism, and Dorothy’s friend Jean, who visited the girls and fell in love with Rose. The rooms were the girls’ bedrooms, the kitchen, and the lanai. It was the murder weapons that stymied us in the end. We came up with four that seemed to us to make the grade: a cheesecake knife (obvious but necessary), a St. Olaf story (with which the victim was bored to death), poisoned Spierhoeven Krispies (the St. Olaf treat that stank to high heaven but, if you held your nose while you ate it, tasted more delicious than anything you’d ever eaten in your life, although in the episode in which Rose makes them, the plate she’s holding is actually empty and the girls are miming putting things in their mouths), and the Curse of the Strega (performed on Dorothy by Lena Pacerelli and reversed by Sofia’s kissing a fool, helping a holy man, and revealing betrayal of a loved one). Options that we dismissed as not being funny enough were Shady Pines pamphlets (with which the victim was paper cut to death) and one of Dorothy’s fat dresses (strangled and/or smothered).
Clearly, though, we were on to something. And once I get those DVDs, I’ll pick the two remaining murder weapons, convince Parker Brothers to put this game out, and watch as I become fabulously wealthy when every gay man on earth buys it.
And if you try to stop me, the next Spierhoeven Krispie you eat may be your last.
My boyfriend can no longer buy me expensive French dinners.
I have always been intimidated by the thought of eating at a first rank French restaurant. I’m so afraid that if I do something wrong they will tear off my epaulets and break my fork.
Last night’s festivities began promisingly. A waiter with a rugger build and flushed cheeks gave an unobtrusive nod to my choice of Tranche de Foie Gras avec Epices.
The night progressed without any gaffes and I grew giddily empowered. I began to imagine some chef could beat a Hemingwayesque exit were I to have the authority to wrest their third star away.
I wanted to refill E.S.’s glass when it appeared that all the waitstaff were in the adjoining room.
A MILLISECOND after my fingertips grazed the wine bottle he flew at me. If I had attempted to insert a Derringer into Bush’s rectum there wouldn’t have been a more rapid response.
My reckoning is that Michelin brownshirts were watching our every move.
I am sticking to Country French now.
One of the many joys of dating E.S. is that he is always coming up with new reasons for me to shower him with praise. This might make others cower in his perfection, but I am pleased to be constantly reminded of the prince he is. With all the frogs I’ve kissed (see posts passim), I have more than earned the karma needed for someone of his stature.
Last night, he decided to suprise me with a romantic candle-lit dinner for two in his apartment. Unfortunately, I ruined things by returning home earlier than expected from my class at the gym, and was ushered into his room, his hands covering my eyes, until everything was just so.
I begrudgingly went into his room and did my best to pout like a five year old on time-out, but it was to no avail; he turned and left to continue his work. After a few minutes of sitting on the bed, organizing the drawer he gave me and straightening the books on his shelf, he called to me and asked if I wanted to help.
Of course, I leapt at the opportunity.
I made my way to the kitchen and did my best to divert my eyes from the candles and flower petals scattered on the table. I snuggled up beside him at the counter, and asked what he needed me to do.
“I’m making Chicken Oriental with Sesame Seeds, and since you’re my favorite onanist, I thought maybe you’d like to scatter the seeds.”
“I’m your favorite what?”
“Onanist, like Onan in the bible. I love it when you spill your seed, especially when I can eat it afterwards.” With this, he kissed me.
Pardon my pun, but it is at this exact moment when I realized my search for love had indeed proved fruitful.
Yes, last night I did use the L-word, and he (thankfully) returned in kind. Fret not, gentle readers, as this blog is not going anywhere in the near future. I’m sure that there will be more than a few angst-ridden posts in the near future, and that I am bound to screw up somehow.
In the meantime, in need of a new title, and The Search for Activist Judges in Manhattan seems premature.
Suggestions are welcomed.
What if my readers submit blogalike entries and reveal that they are stupid, insipid, or can’t write? My dream of being loved by a global community of intelligent, discerning readers will be shattered by the reality of slovenly perverts and the fringe group of quilters/knitters who inadvertently hit on this site and avert their eyes at the majority of the content.
Or if they actually do me better than I do–smarter, funnier, sexier?
What if the contestants show themselves to be motivated not by skill and appreciation of craft but by greed for the free prize?
What if, in trying to capture my inimitable style, they demonstrate that they find me shallow, self-involved, and contemptible?
What have I done?
Wait, everyone liked it when I just wrote about porn?
I am paralyzed by indecision.
Ordinarily, of course, this is so commonplace an occurrence as to hardly bear mentioning (unless I begin to post such observations as Gravity continues to hold my furniture to the floor of my apartment or Breathing sustained life, so E.S. and I took oxygen into our lungs according to our custom.)
No, today’s dilemma is all due to a numerologist.
In my continuing quest to understand the complexities of my dog, A., I have consulted veterinarians, groomers, and an animal communicator. A friend had recommended a numerologist (for me, not for A.), and I thought perhaps the mystical art of numerology could reveal her innermost drives and urges. Or at least, shed some light on what drives A. to such heinous acts as peeing where I’d prefer that she not.
The consultation was over the phone, with a woman apparently based somewhere in suburban Connecticut. I explained that this reading was not for myself, but for my … friend. Somehow I choked on the phrase, This is for my dog, who is lovable but maddening, and instead said that I was trying to improve a relationship which has had a mystifying series of ups and downs. After supplying A.’s relevant numbers, we were off to the races.
I was astounded at how well the numerologist, Y., seemed to understand A.’s multifaceted personality. Apparently, her essential number is 5, which is ruled by the planet Mercury, making her gregarious, energetic and fun-loving, but also somewhat fickle, and … well, mercurial. After half an hour, I was overjoyed, at last having some further understanding of A.’s changes of mood. Of course, I thought. She’s a 5.
“She follows her impulses, although she may often regret them later,” the numerologist said.
“Exactly,” I said. “When she pooped in my knitting bag, she was very apologetic.”
After a mortifying moment which seemed to last approximately a week and a half, I confessed that, no, we were not talking about my friend so much as my pet.
“A. is a dog?”
I stammered that indeed she is.
“The numbers are completely different for dogs. I have to recalculate. I’ll need to charge you another hour.”
Now to the paralyzing dilemma: do I tell A. that she is a 5, ruled by Mercury, fun-loving, curious and fleet of intellect? Or do I tell her that she is instead an 9, ruled by Mars, making her active but prone to jealousy and aggression?
And that in either case, I’d prefer that she stay out of my knitting bag.
It should go without saying, if only because I have said it so many times already, that my relationship with E.S. is a thing of wonder and beauty about which it would be churlish to complain. Even so, there are times when going out with such a prodigious doctor/humanitarian/sexual athlete can make one feel a little overshadowed.
When, for example, he is arranging to go to the Medecins Sans Frontieres Volunteering Information Evening while I am merely struggling to remember four blocks of aerobic choreography, the disparity between our achievements is hard to ignore. This must be what it is like to be a superhero’s
sidekick; a magician’s assistant; a base cheerleader.
As it happens, I know exactly what the latter two experiences are like, but (for reasons to be discussed in some future post) have lately given up cheerleading, while being sawn in half at the age of twelve turned out to be an event of such excruciating embarrassment that even now the memory can induce spontaneous vomiting. I immediately forswore all contact with the Dark Arts and (ignoring the occasional Voodoo curse raised against an ex-lover) have never looked back.
Which leaves the first option. If nothing else, the superhero sidekick business does have a certain erotic potential. I can see myself playing Boy Wonder to E.S.’s Caped Crusader quite happily.
As long as the outfits are right.
The last time E.S. and I went shopping, we found ourselves in a stationer, and I began having my usual fantasy about a stationery wardrobe. Those of you who read Miss Manners’s books or were alive a hundred years ago know that a stationery wardrobe is essential for social survival. On what else could I write long, chatty letters and issue engraved invitations to fancy dinner parties?
Incredulous, E.S. reminded me that I can barely bring myself to write two lines in an email and that the last time I invited people over for a dinner party, my guests ended up sitting on the dusty floor eating tortilla chips from the bag. Actually owning a stationery wardrobe, he reminded me, would necessitate an upheaval in my personal habits unparalleled since I became a cheerleader and began my enforced daily visits to the gym.
So I ordered one.
The stationery should arrive in two weeks, after which time I’ll be able to issue engraved invitations to fancy dinner parties. It remains to be seen whether this will be sufficient personal motivation to keep my floors vacuumed, but it does at the very least give me an excuse to keep plenty of tortilla chips on hand.