Author Archives: Joel Derfner

N.B.: This is today’s second post of two.

I’m sorry, but the tale of my date with V., the Bulgarian, will have to wait until tomorrow.

Because I just met Bryant Gumbel’s dog.

Who is named Cujo.

Bette Midler’s dog is named Puddles.

Why is the world like this?

Okay, I was working on something to post today, but I came across this blog and had to interrupt myself to share it. I don’t know how I’ve lived without it all these years.

I’ll post about my date last night with the Bulgarian later today.

And a note to Anonymous #7: I just reread my comment to you and realized, with a dawning sense of horror, that it could be interpreted as mean and sarcastic. Rest assured that it was, in fact, an invitation and that I am, in fact, trying to get into your pants.

Several people have written me (well, all right, three) asking me whether the two items on this post’s second list are related—whether, in fact, the Anaerobic Physicist (don’t ask me why I’ve decided to call him that, because I don’t know) had finally come to his senses. Alas, the answer to both questions is no. The Anaerobic Physicist is on vacation until the middle of next month, which means that I couldn’t play the sympathy card with him even if I wanted to (oh, who am I kidding, of course I want to). Item #2 on the list is a direct result of the fact that I seem to have rejoined men4sexnow.com. The whole not getting any just started to get to me after a point.

I have also concurrently rejoined planet out. Tonight I have a date with someone from Bulgaria. The genius of this move escaped me until moments ago: if English is not his native tongue, then lapses in grammar and spelling don’t count!

At least not minor ones.

I was all set to write a post about how I feel like a terrible homosexual because I ended up seeing neither Finding Nemo nor Broadway Bares, but it was swept from my mind by the uncanny resemblence of the x-ray technician at St. Vincent’s to Aughra from The Dark Crystal. I was terrified she was going to remove an eye, shove it in my face, and say portentously, “There is much to be learned, and you have no time!” (It’s the fifth .wav file down.)

Lucky for me, both of her eyes stayed where they were. Now I have a sexy cast (instead of a splint) and some codeine, which I am about to take.

I’ve never taken codeine before and I can’t wait.

N.B.: This is today’s second post of two.

I’m not quite sure how I’ve managed to live in New York for six years and never see Broadway Bares, the strip show featuring Broadway actors taking their clothes off to benefit Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, but at midnight tonight I am going to rectify the oversight.

But first I’m seeing Finding Nemo.

Cartoon fish and naked hunks. Could I be gayer?

Please forgive me for breaking my promise to post twice yesterday. I was unexpectedly called upon to demonstrate anew the validity of #2 in the second list in yesterday’s entry. I’ll do my best to post twice today, but of course if my honor is called into question my first duty is to defend it. I mean not to defend it. Oh, you know what I mean.

If I’d known about the fringe benefits I would have started breaking bones long before now.

N.B.: I’ll be posting twice today. This is the first.

Two short lists, based on my experiences yesterday, my first full day as a cripple:

Things I Can’t Do With my Arm in a Splint and Sling

1. button my shorts.
2. tie my shoes.

Things I Can Do With my Arm in a Splint and Sling

1. go to step aerobics class.
2. get fucked up the ass.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Tonight at cheerleading practice I threw a round-off back tuck.

Then I threw two more.

Then I broke the fourth metacarpal in my left hand.

My mother’s ancestors came to South Carolina in 1610 from France, where, as Huguenots, they had suffered merciless persecution at the hands of the Catholics. In 1685, Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, which had for 90 years been French Protestants’ only protection, flimsy though it was. An ancestor of mine, safely ensconced in Charleston, had this to say:

Ah, my children! The blood-soaked soil of France cries to heaven for vengeance, and vengeance it will have! Just as surely as righteous Abel’s blood, crying from the earth to God for vengeance upon his murderer, brought down the curse upon Cain, so will a lasting curse rest upon France. Mark well what I say to you! France, guilty France, will never again be blessed with peace, prosperity, and quiet; but, on the contrary, trouble, violence, and revolution after revolution will vex and rend those who have thus troubled and murdered the people of God. Therefore, my dear children, never do you return to France—keep yourselves clear of it, if you would keep clear of the fearful curse that hangs over it.

I’m not sure whether he was talking about the infrequency of French bathing or Disneyland Paris, but it’s nice to know that at least one of my forebears understood the importance of a good curse.

Confidential to David (TEFL Smiler): Dessverre, saa forsto jeg din kommentering. Saa, mens jeg er veldig takknemlig for ditt arbeide, skal jeg fortsette aa proeve.

It is I, Faustus. I have returned.

Yesterday was the reading of my concentration camp musical.

There is a lot of rewriting and fixing to be done, but when a quarter of the actors and half the audience are crying by the end of the show, you’re probably doing something right.