Doghouse

I messed up.

I was supposed to meet Theo, his friend Allsion, and her friends Jane and (Jane's boyfriend) at Navy Pier this morning. But, instead I let myself keep falling asleep after talking to Theo on my cell phone at 10, 11, 11:30, and so on. I know that he's incredibly angry with me. And this is not good. So, now they're coming to Lakeview and we're meeting up. How awkward is this going to be?

The Vagina Monologue

I don't see many vaginas.

Especially vaginas beonging to close friends and acquaintances.

But I did, tonight. Erin, Tim and I convened in the grand city of Chicago, and one of our many activities included buying three copies of this month's "Playboy." An old friend, Laurie Fetter, is Miss May this year. I was sweating, my heart was racing--I was almost able to disregard the fact that the 7-Eleven clerk needed to let me know that "Playboy" was a magazine filled exclusively with females.

I don't see many mommy parts, as I've already stated. Her vaginal lips looked sort of big, but that's based on a comparison to the few vaginas I can remember seeing. Her breasts, obviously inflated with silicone, were large in a decidedly beautiful way. Perhaps it's because when I think of women's nipples I have this caricatured image of four-inch nipples in mind that I thought hers looked small. The photoshoot itself was surprisingly tasteful, for Playboy's standards--I think Hugh likes to go for a more "classical" look when he shoots the monthly centerfolds. Her lips were painted a crimson colour; her eye makeup took a lesson from the fifties; her lingerie consisted mainly of lace and silk; most of the shots were in a regal boudoir. I'll try to scan a picture sometime soon; for now, go to her website to get an idea of what she looks like with clothes on. She's certainly the most beautiful woman I've ever known.

It's a strange feeling, seeing someone you know in a magazine. As much as I doubt this bit of publicity will "take her places," I hope for her sake and the sake of her family that she does succeed in "making something of herself." To quote the magazine, "Laurie is...getting her real estate license and taking classes at UCLA." I wish her and her clitoris the best. May she not be another Carmen Electra or, worse yet, another Jenny McCarthy.

I had a fun, albeit somewhat awkward, evening with Erin and Tim. I met them at the Addison L station, we ate at Kopi, saw "TMLMTBGB," which was great as always (this was the first time I'd seen it that they succeeded in finishing the show, with fifteen seconds to spare), ate some more at Clarke's, and came back to my apartment to oogle at Ms. Fetter's netherregions. They both had difficulties with their Transit Cards--Tim's $4.5 card was eaten by the bus, Erin's didn't work when she boarded the Blue Line earlier tonight, and their transfer cards expired. I hope they had a memorable time.

Tomorrow, I'm meeting Theo, Allison, and her friends at Navy Pier (my FAVOURITE tourist trap...), and then doing something with Theo, probably. Sunday, I'm going up to the Wauk to visit my grandparents, and then having what I imagine will be another memorable family meeting.

Update of "Wha?"

Because no one was home shortly after I discovered the back door incident, I posted a brief note to everyone, simply saying that we need to be more careful about making sure our apartment is well-secured. There's a resident of this apartment who assumes that everything is about him--because why wouldn't it be?--and this resident decided to write a response to my call for action directly on the memo. I skimmed it. What would the purpose have been in me actually reading it? A commentary on my written observation by someone who can only think about himself could only involve some unnecessary defense of himself, and a barrage of insults. From what I picked up, that's precisely what it was. So, scissors in hand, I snipped off his scribblings, tore the needless waste of ink and paper up, and left the note there, so that it would be able to serve its original purpose.

As a non-sequitur, how can a high school graduate not understand the concept of a metaphor?

Wha?

The apartment's back door has been open for at least 24 hours. Someone inadvertantly (in a drunken haze, no doubt) pushed the bottom latch in the "lock" position, thus not alowing the door to fully close. I know that at least one person knew about this, because he put his "Express" bag out on the porch full of garbage (because the 10-step walk to the trash bin was MUCH too far for him). (We haven't had garbage bags for the kitchen all week because no one is responsible enough to purchase them, and since Father--me--bought the last box of garbage bags and therefore won't buy the next box, we've had to use Jewel bags all week as makeshift garbage receptacles. I live in a third-world apartment, ladies and gents.) So, instead of figuring out the source of the problem, like I did, he instead just ignored the problem and allowed all of our belongings to sit here with no security for God knows how long.

I'm starting to think that I'm NOT being rediculous in my demands.

Everything Hits at Once

I decided to not attend my evening class. I have too much other work to do.

Going out with C. Shannon was pleasant--she's less and less "C(onservative)" every time I see her--she always looks so well-coiffed too. We ate at a Thai restaurant near Columbia--she was meeting a friend down there afterwards--and had a somewhat enjoyable time.

French cuffs make me more excited than just about anything else. I finally have my first shirt with French cuffs--and it wasn't insanely expensive either! I did get the aforementioned birthday gifts for my mother.

Everyone should take note of the counter at the top of my journal--regardless of your affiliation with the "pro-war" or "anti-war" proponents, I think it's important to understand that we are murdering the same people we are trying to liberate. On war, I suggest everyone pick up a copy of the Onion this week, or go to their website, because never before have I laughed so much. (Really geared more for the liberal crowd, of course)

Empire Falls (Pulitzer prize-winning novel by Richard Russo) makes me feel like I could be a novelist. Not because the book was profoundly inspiring--it was quite the opposite. Thus, I gain a false sense of self-confidence when I read highly-acclaimed novels that I don't think are especially great. But, whatever. I'm not sure what I'm going to read next--my friend Vaughan loaned her copy of "N*gger" to me--a non-fiction book about the perils of the "n-word." No matter how comfortable I am with people hailing all sorts of backgrounds, I just wouldn't feel...right reading that book on the L.

It really bothers/worries me when people type my full name into search engines and spend an hour looking at my journal. I do wish everyone would identify themselves via "comments" or the guestbook. Not like that's going to happen--when in recent history have I been listened to?

3 papers. Must focus.

"Quicker than a ray of light I'm flying"

Madonna's "Ray of Light" album was being played at Panini Panini yesterday, and while I ate/read/scribbled things in my journal, I started thinking about just how much significance that abum has to my life. I bought that album the morning it came out--I had my "caregiver" drive me to Blockbuster, when they used to cell CDs, and I listened to it all day. I lost my virginity (I didn't really lose it--I chose to give it to somebody) while Madonna's soothing electropop danced in the background. I woke up to "The Power of Good-Bye" and "To Have and Not to Hold" for the majority of my high school days--whenever I hear the bassanova intro. to the latter song, I still think of those dark winter mornings, where the only light in my room is the clock on my stereo. Still, to this day, I can find things in the "Ray of Light" album that inspire, guide, and amaze me. She IS a fairly good performer.

Enough about that.

To Theo's misfortune, he slept over last night. It was another long, loud night at the Hellmouth Inn. But, for me at least, the evening's events that led up to the night of involuntary sleeplessness made up for my frustration with...you know.

Today, I'm finally purchasing my mother some birthday gifts, going to dinner with C Shannon, going to class, and more thrashing around in my bed, trying to fall asleep.

Jangly

Never again. I swear it.

Otherwise, I had a great weekend. Friday was spent with Tim (I can use his name now!), Cyndi, and later, So Hang and her boyfriend Eric. The three of us went "restaurant-hopping," closing down Panera, Oberweis, and ending up at IHOP, where we met up with the fourth and fifth members of our group. I stayed up until 3AM, reading Newsweek/Empire Falls and watching the continuous war updates on MSNBC (a luxury my roommates do not allow here), eagerly waiting for a phone call that never came. I went to bed disappointed and confused--not to mention a bit irritated.

Saturday, Theo and I went "shopping" briefly, saw the atrocious View From the Top (Note to Ms. Paltrow--stop.), ate at "GayHOP," and later, Theo watched me vomit after we walked to Blockbuster and returned. We were awoken at around 5AM by a male and female's shrieks. I think they were singing along to the "Chicago" soundtrack, but that inference would be as accurate as if I guessed a dying cow was really just trying to sing a movement of Schubert's "Mass in D."

Today, Theo and I ate breakfast (at 2:15PM) at Orange, a homegrown restaurant founded on its delicious juice bar, unbeatable breakfast selections, and inventive decor and management. The restaurant posessed an originality one generally finds combined with a condescending pretense. All pretentiousness absent from this eatery, Theo and I enjoyed ourselves.

I just finished writing a paper for choir, and now I'm off to eat some pesto pasta and read Rousseau. Wish me luck.

What is it good for?

I find it ironically disgusting that my life has to parallel the current state of our nation.

First and foremost, I should make it clear that this war on Iraq (not in) is something I'm completely against. I am disappointed in my appointed leader and his rash, unsupported decisions regarding this matter. I am frightened for my own safety and that of my fellow Americans--those living here in the country, those reporting the war as journalists, and most importantly, those who are serving as pawns and bishops in Bush's game of chess. I am embarassed of my citizenship to this country, and the stigmatic archetypes that will precede me whenever I leave this country in the future. I am angry at those "citizens" of the US who ignorantly, blindly support our representative leaders without thinking for themselves--ultimately, it is we, the common men and women of the United States, who are the ones urinating on our democracy, not our appointed dignitaries. Finally, I am tired--tired of this administration, tired of "collateral damage," tired of rhetoric running reality out of town, tired of not being heard as a citizen of this country, and tired of waiting in fear of what the next day, the next hour, the next minute will bring me, my country, and my fellow humans.

Enough of that. I really didn't want to write about the war--so cliche in times like this.

My "war" will be much more peaceful than Bush's (unless an unnamed drunken roommate threatens to "box" with me again). For months, I, like the Bush administration, have been setting reasonable guidelines for existence in this "world," or our apartment, with a force that cannot be reasoned with. Like Bush and Hussein, I have made concerted efforts to better the state of humanity (the living conditions in my apartment) in this "world," and the "Husseins" (I don't mean that to be as offensive as some will take it/complain about in my comments) have agreed to adhere to those simple, fair demands. But, since the time of their birth, these same circumspect guidelines have been disregarded, mocked, and cast somewhere underneath our urine-stained couch. Their lack of respect for my desire to allow humanity to remain unchafed by their selfishness time and time again, their inablility to discuss these matters any further without being belligerent, condescending, and cruel, and their sneaky, doublehanded gestures have left me with two choices. Either I can scrape what dignity I have left, store it locksafe in my heart, and attempt to live in a world smitten by contempt, pride, and disrespect, or, like Bush, I can come to terms with the fact that people cannot change people, and that sometimes one has to forcefully defend what is rightly his (for me, it is a desire to be able to do well collegiately and live in a democratic habitat built on a foundation of respect and understanding; for Bush, it is protecting his country and the world from a potential Evil). Like Bush, I have called on a higher force--"the U.N.," as I will now term them--but, unlike our president, I have received nothing but support from this power. So, I will give this situation one week to improve, all the while knowing (as I sit here witnessing a direct violation of a treaty created but 48 hours ago) that this Force will not, cannot change its ways. "Retaliation" is in place. Several blueprints have been drawn up; the support of my fellow "nations" stands firm; let "Operation: Cornelian Circumvention" commence.

(You cannot truly compare me to Bush, because not only am I more inteligent, more reasonable, more liberal, and more attractive than the Texan tyrant, but also, my dispute with "Iraq" is set on a much much smaller scale than Bush's and doesn't involve the use of life-terminating weapons.)

Finally

I'll write about my weekend now. I'll try to leave out all of the apartmental things, because I'm not passive-agressive (my writing in my blog about "the issue(s)" would bring myself to their level, which includes them insulting me loudly in the living room, so that I can hear their petty words from my bedroom).

Saturday, Theo and I went strolling through the near north neighbourhoods of Chicago, stopping at several fun shops. I bought an endearing card, a cake of lavender soap, and some toiletries from Aveda. We ate at one of his favorite restaurants in Lincoln Park, and were bombarded by the cheerful St. Patrick's Day partygoers. What a great way to spend a Saturday--I really enjoyed myself. He said something to me tonight, about how I'm just test-driving him, and I haven't bought him yet. I have my money in my pocket--I just need to give it to the owner next time I see him.

Sunday, I went to lunch with a friend downtown, and then we went to the big peace rally at the Daley Center. I really enjoyed it--while the 5,000 protesters paled in comparison to the some 700,000 protesters in London, I was nevertheless impressed. So many signs, so many fliers...there was just this great energy there. I felt it, and I liked it. After that, he and I just strooled around downtown before his train.

That's where I'll stop, I think. To avoid a touchy subject.

All I can say is--unlike George W. Bush, my war with "Iraq" will be "U.N.-backed."

Change of Plans

I was planning on regailing you, my readers, with stories from my wonderful weekend. But, just as the beautiful Chicago weather has again turned sour, so has my week. I'm taking a temporary oath of slience regarding last night's incident; I have a few things I need to take care of before I say or do anything.

If my mood changes drastically throughout the course of the day, perhaps tonight I will post about this past weekend.

You know you're queer when...

Your socks and underwear start looking a lot alike.

Just so that my readers know--I will never (again, if I have) use my journal as a means of solving problems. From now on, I'm not going to take the circumbendibus path to eradicate my issues with people--either I'll have an open and non-hostile conversation with someone, or I won't talk/type about it at all. Passive-agressiveness is not the answer.

Grit and Glitter

I realized something tonight--as I walked back from seeing a film words cannot describe, I really became one with the city. (Pardon the cliche.) Georges Seurat, in my opinion, painted his acclaimed "Un dimanche apres-midi a l'Ile de la Grande Jatte" to show that, if you examine each facet of existence, you will be doomed to a life of tedious over-analysis, and ultimately disregard each piece of the Living Puzzle as bland and inconsequential. But, if you approach life--and his painting--from a holistic, omnicient vantagepoint, one can see the true beauty that lies in the world and in his great work. If you look at each homeless beggar, each Lake Shore yuppie, each glistening tower, each discarded soda can, and do not step back and see how it relates to the "big picture," you are doomed to live an unfulfilled life. I think I learned that tonight.

Talk to Her amazed me. It was a beautiful film that surpassed my every expectation--so elegantly, carefully structured. So rich and beautiful and full of energy. I adored it.

Our apartmental motto: "Two faces are better than one!"

Enough about that. "Unsuccessfully fighting ignorance," as my away message goes.

I've been thinking a lot about God lately. Mostly due to the efforts of a Mr. Fred Phelps, the minister of the Westboro Baptist Chuch in Topeka--he's the "mastermind" behind those "God Hates Fags" and "Gay = Anal Sex = (skull and crossbones)" signs you see and hear about. Because of my introduction to Mr. Phelps and his online headquaters of hate, I've been wondering where I will find myself post-mortem. According to the WBC and Romans 1, I have already been chosen to reside in Hell for all of eternity following my death, because I'm a homosexual. There's no way I can save myself now--I'm simply not one of God's Chosen. But, while most queers would take a look at that and say, "Oh well, nothing I can do about it now," I was nurtured in a Christian household, school, and church, so I have no choice but to question that. The unfortunate thing is, no matter how many questions I ask, I know what the answers will be--they're explicitly and implicitly stated in the Bible. (And of course, I am somewhat skeptical of the Bible's validity, but for the sake of argument, let's just assume that the Bible is the most concrete resource we know as humans.)

So, what is my purpose in life now? I've felt lost these past few days, after scouring Phelps' website for hours and hours, looking for a loophole that would allow me to have salvation in God, and finding nothing. And I know he's not the only source out there, but the Bible does enumerate things pretty clearly. I suppose I'll just have to follow my own inherent Moral Code and see what happens. But that's not good enough for me.

Does anyone want to go to the largest peace rally in the Midwest with me? It's on Sunday, at 2PM, in the Daley Center plaza.

A list

Relationship with Theo: Reinstated, on trial basis
Recommendations page: Updated--added Shannon's, Tripp's, Bob's, So Hang's journals
Ani DiFranco, Evolve: Not as wonderful as I'd expected--"Evolve," "Phase," "Second Intermission," and "Welcome to:" are good
The Ring: Disturbing--watching the Japanese version tonight
8 Femmes: Absolutely adored it
Les Nubiens: Excellent group

I'll probably expound on these things, esp. #1, later.

An Amusing E-mail

"Sounds like you have an acceptable life-style. Good!!!
Love, from you grandparents"

My grandparents are from Union, South Carolina--their ancestors had slaves and plantations. My mother fondly recalls Bertha, a servant in her grandmother's house, who served them whilst they visited the massive, white house my great-grandparents occupied. My grandparents--my grandfather in particular--are conservative, staunch Republicans. They have no idea how much their message amuses me.

"The leaden circles dissolved in the air."

A friend was right--I am entranced by Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. She reminds me of Sylvia Plath--her characters bear defeatist, honest attitudes, which is a refreshing change from typical early 20th century English novels. I don't know if that's a good analysis, but I do not care.

I've made a conscious decision to stop reading Lauren's journal. She writes things in her Blog that offend and disturb me, and since I wouldn't like to get my cyberhead bitten off once again about commenting on her musings, I'm simply not going to read it anymore. Why should I subject myself to the tactless beratement of myself and my friends?

And then, I think about the Blog in itself. I feel like this is just another fad--one of my circles of friends, reading each other's scribblings and getting tiffed. Eventually, we'll all get so frustrated with each other and delete our Blogs altogether. (I probably won't.) At least Blogger.com has given people a taste of the fruit one bears when writing in a journal.

I'm going shopping tonight (mostly returns--no money will be spent), and watching 8 Femmes, finally.

Under Pressure

So, Tripp and I are no more. I decided to end it today, and I did. It was sort of mutual--we agreed that we aren't really the same kind of person. Tripp is a really fun, great guy--the problem is, we're almost exact opposites. He asked me last night if I thought I'd ever fall in love with him, and I realized that I probably wouldn't. So, another page turns in this boy's novel.

I was initially under pressure about that matter (I detest breaking up with people), and now all I can think about is the plethora of schoolwork I have to complete over the next couple of weeks. I feel like I'm so behind, even though in reality, I'm sure I'm not.

Tonight, I'm going out with a friend from sort-of theater, sort of a mutual friend.

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Bloody Bad-Aids

First and foremost, I'd like to give a "shout out" to my "brothers" in France, Germany, and Russia for trying to block a U.N.-backed Iraqattack. You rock.

So, I'll be honest. I didn't want to go to this theater party last night with Tripp and Catherine. I was tired, it was wretched outside, and quite frankly, I just wanted to watch a movie with my man friend and relax after a seven-hour drive. But, because either I have no spine, or I have this desire to make everyone happy (esp. when I'm dating them), or a miserable combination of the two, I went with. Usually, I think it's pretty obvious to someone when you do something you don't want to do, and then that person accommodates you so that you think, "Golly, I'm glad I decided to do that." But, instead, my driving skills were insulted over and over again, and I ended up sitting on a couch by myself for the majority of the evening, while Tripp was spreading his wings like only the most colourful social butterflies can. Pissed was I.

Today, today was a good day. Tripp slept over last night, so after sleeping for most of the afternoon, we drove back to LUC, where I picked up my friend Zoe. She and I went out to dinner at a Thai place in Evanston, saw The Life of David Gale (brief review later), and ate what perhaps is the best ice cream I've ever had at Marble Slab. It was a good night--I really enjoyed myself.

I'll say it--I don't really like Kevin Spacey. His post-American Beauty work has been shit. I mean, c'mon--no one does a film about being an alien when one has an Academy Award sitting on his desk. But, I digress. The Life of David Gale is a film made for capital punishment opposers and Texas-haters. Therefore, I loved it. As Zoe so wisely pointed out, the director chose to include some unnecessarily "suspenseful" moments in the film, and the scenes have a bothersome, contrived transitional element. But, I did like it. And Kate Winslet is a great actress, if you disregard the fact that she was in that boat movie.

About friends--I have some. I don't have very many, according to society's standards. And quite fucking frankly, that's fine with me. I really value solitude, and the connection you make with people when you're gathering with them one-on-one. But, because everyone's "supposed" to have a horde of friends during college, I feel stupid when people incinuate that I need friends or something. Because I don't. I will make a connection with a person when it's appropriate to do so. Otherwise, I don't need to be the queen bee of the collegiate hive.

Going home tomorrow, sleeping there tomorrow night, returning Friday or Saturday. Wish me luck whilst I battle my parents and their numerous lectures.

(Ambient cat noises)

Well, I'm "home" now. My roommates are being very strange to me...I'm not sure why/what's going on.

I've never felt freer than I did today--I decided that, in light of the nice(r) weather in Missouri/southern Illinois, I would drive as far as I can home with my top down. On my car, mind you. It was so liberating--I forgot how connected I feel with earth when I have the top down, and I'm driving through vast expanses of nothing, with the sun warming my shoulders by day and the moon sending its glitter down to earth by night, giving everything a dream-like gleam.

I had a great weekend with Erin--no matter how far apart we may live or how infrequently we speak these days, we just have a connection that transcends reality.

I heard a fun phrase on NPR this evening, while driving through the clumpy, dense snow Chicago was graced with tonight (top up, of course). "That's more rhetoric than reality." I think a lot of my writing (unfortunately) falls into that category. I tend to make things seem "larger than life" in my blog, and in my journals. But, at least I'll remember things being better than they were when I go back in ten, five years and read everything over!

One thing of note that Erin and I did this weekend was see El Crimen del Padre Amaro (The Crime of Father Amaro) at Ragtag. The film starred one of the gentlemen from Y Tu Mama, Tambien and was about a "Scarlet Letter"-esque romance between a priest and a congregation member, all set to the backdrop of Mexico's drug trade. It was not great--we both were expecting more from it. As in, more skin. More sex. Oh well. Mexican films have a tendency to be very real, very gritty, very grotesque almost--I like that.

Off to eat mousakka and watch the first episode of "Six Feet Under," while waiting for Trippers to be done with rehearsal.

(Ambient banjo music)

It's been so long since I've posted--I doubt anyone but myself noticed.

Friday, Tripp and I saw a play at Loyola--"Servant of Two Masters." While I didn't enjoy the plot at all, and it was mortifyingly long, I thought it was well-performed. Then, after waking up much much earlier on Saturday than I wanted, I took the train home, grabbed my car, and headed off to Missouri (with a brief detour to Chicago to gather a bunch of dirty clothes to wear this weekend...which I still have not washed).

Oh, before I talk briefly about Missouri, I'm reading The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold. It's another one of those NYTimes bestselling books that "everyone's" reading. So far, it's interesting, but it seems like something a teenage girl would read. Why are people drawn to books like this? It's not extraordinarily well-written, the plot isn't very inventive (dead girl speaking from heaven about her death, etc.), and it doesn't seem like it'll have much depth. Oh well. I will finish this, because it seems much more promising than Salinger's Frannie and Zooey. Talk about crap.

So, MIssouri has been good so far. Unlike high school, which I dread returning to, I didn't hate Mizzou at all, so I don't have any real feelings about being back here. It's odd, because I feel like I still go to school here. Until, of course, instead of returning to my room at the end of an Erinevening, I sleep in her bed. Hmm.

We watched Devil's Playground, a documentary about the Amish's rumspringa (when Amish children turn 16, they are sent into the "english" world to see what they'd be missing in common society, before they commit themselves to the church for life). It was really strange, and left more questions unanswered than answered. I now have a strange fascination with all things Amish, and am unable to find substantial information online about these people.

That's all for now--I'm going back to Chicago on Tuesday.