Ma maison!
After several days of shopping, worrying, and arguing with Theo, I have finally moved in to our new apartment. My parents and I completed the task in about 5 hours, which included moving things from West Dundee and my former place of living. I had fun, for the most part.
A few things are still wrong with the unit--my shower does not work (it's being fixed even as I type this from Loyola's computer lab), the toliet seat is broken, and my kitchen still smells like gas. But, those are pretty minor issues, I'd say.
I woke up at 6:00AM this morning to study for my Cultural Anthropology final, which may have went very well or very badly--I cannot gauge it. I have an English final in 30 minutes, and then I'm going home to do some more dishes, run a load of laundy, and eat. Then, I'm going with my parents and some family friends to see the Billy Joel/Elton John concert--a matter that has been smitten with controversy, complications, and the like.
When my parents and I went to my former place of living, I found condoms and lube on my Ikea chair. I realize that the likelihood of sexual relations occurring in my chair are slim, but still...those things, when not belonging to me, are disgusting. My parents looked around the apartment one last time and likened it to a "trailer home." I didn't say anything.
I may not be posting frequently until May 9, when my DSL will be up and running. I hope everyone at Loyola fares well on their finals, and that everyone else enjoys the pleasant spring/summer weather that should hopefully be arriving soon.
Oh...one more thing. Theo and I are planning a housewarming party for late June or early July. Cost of admission? A teacup and saucer. E-mail me if you'd like to be invited (boyinbrownshirt@aol.com).
A record of the life and times of one brown shirt-wearing university student, struggling to escape his fear of intimacy, overcome his hunger for eternal supremacy in every aspect, and never have to write a description of his life like this again.
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Shit.
I woke up early this morning so that I may write a 1000-word essay about the biology of war (it took me about 10 minutes to even figure out how to phrase the topic! Agh!) for my philosophy class. But, I really don't think I'll be able to write it--I'm having a block. I've had over a week to write it, and the past week specifically has only been filled with free time. Why do I always wait until the last minute to finish things? And even now, when it IS THE LAST MINUTE, I cannot seem to pound a paper out.
In other news, Madonna's new album American Life is satisfactory. She's getting kind of preachy, but I still like what she's doing.
I woke up early this morning so that I may write a 1000-word essay about the biology of war (it took me about 10 minutes to even figure out how to phrase the topic! Agh!) for my philosophy class. But, I really don't think I'll be able to write it--I'm having a block. I've had over a week to write it, and the past week specifically has only been filled with free time. Why do I always wait until the last minute to finish things? And even now, when it IS THE LAST MINUTE, I cannot seem to pound a paper out.
In other news, Madonna's new album American Life is satisfactory. She's getting kind of preachy, but I still like what she's doing.
Sunday, April 20, 2003
En Masse
This is what I've been doing since Monday.
The Background
I was late for class on Monday, and felt no need to hurry. I walked down Cornelia on my way to the El, and saw the typical "For Rent" sign--a sign that will forever be etched into the back of my head. (Flourescent orange on a black background does that to you.) I called the phone number, and spoke to a woman who told me about a 3-bedroom that was available for $1175. (The price was eventually dropped to a more amenable sum.) I liked what I heard and set up an appointment with her for the next day.
Tuesday came--I went over there around 1:00, and met with the on-site managers (of sorts), Carol and Larry. They're in their 80s. Carol doesn't know how to stop talking. Larry has been through a lot, and rarely makes sense. They took four hours of my time on Tuesday, mostly with chatter.
The Apartment
That's alright, though--the apartment is stunning. The building was erected in the late 1800s, and its age reflects itself nicely throughout--clawfoot bathtub, original doorhandles and doorplates, two beautiful built-in fixtures (a grand hutch in the dining room and a mirror in the foyer), and high ceilings and moulding throughout. We have a living room, two large bedrooms, a smaller bedroom which will be used for an office, a dining room, kitchen (WITH LARGE PANTRY, WITH WINDOW IN LARGE PANTRY, AS IN A SEPERATE ROOM), private deck, huge bathroom, and a deep closet in almost every room.
I immediately fell in love with it, and insisted on Theo coming down that day to see it. He loved it too. I called my parents, and they came down, security deposit in tow, looked at the apartment, liked it too, and it now belongs to Theo and I.
The Xavi
On out way out, my parents and I were accosted by Xavier, our new downstairs neighbour. I'd already heard horror stories from Carol about his anger in regards to the fact that we're paying $150 less a month than he is, for the same unit, but he was very nice. A 46-year-old gay man, he resembles my Uncle Roy in most every aspect, except the fact that he makes about $700,000 more a year than my uncle. A chief lighting specialist for Lightology, a lighting design company named by Architectural Digest as "the" place to purchase light fixtures, Xavier has used his knowledge of lighting and his well-filled bank account to give his apartment a complete makeover (which really makes no sense, since he will not get anything in return for pouring lots of money into his apartment).
We chatted for about an hour. He then invited me to his cocktail party he was throwing on Saturday. I agreed to be there, with my Theo in tow.
The Aside
Basically, we live with a lot of middle-aged, upper-class gay men. And that scares me, and Theo some as well. Theo kept exasperatingly asking me, "What are we getting INTO?!?!" when I told him about Xavier. Most of the building's tenants have been there for more than five years. Which is unusual for a metropolitan apartment, and means that they really like the building. Most of these people are treating their apartments like condos, which makes it hard for 19-year-old college students to fit in, style-wise.
The Party
We walked around the block once or twice, upon getting there. (My new apartment is only a few blocks west of my current living space.) We were nervous. Eventually we went in. I grabbed Theo and I a drink (Martinis--are they SUPPOSED to have the olive brine poured into them? I was confused.) from a bartender Xavier hired. I gave him a tour of his apartment, and I don't think he liked it. (My decorative taste centers around symmetry and themes. Every room should have a BASIC theme and centralized colour scheme. Theo...I don't really understand his design strategies. But, he hated Xavi's place because each room has a theme.) We met some of our neighbours, and two of them actually took us to their apartments and gave us a tour. One man, Dan, I really liked. He is an interior designer/furniture businessman (or something), and his unit was gorgeous. The other two gentlemen we met had just moved in two weeks ago, so their apartment was still white.
Everyone has nice furniture, though. Fuck.
This is what I've been doing since Monday.
The Background
I was late for class on Monday, and felt no need to hurry. I walked down Cornelia on my way to the El, and saw the typical "For Rent" sign--a sign that will forever be etched into the back of my head. (Flourescent orange on a black background does that to you.) I called the phone number, and spoke to a woman who told me about a 3-bedroom that was available for $1175. (The price was eventually dropped to a more amenable sum.) I liked what I heard and set up an appointment with her for the next day.
Tuesday came--I went over there around 1:00, and met with the on-site managers (of sorts), Carol and Larry. They're in their 80s. Carol doesn't know how to stop talking. Larry has been through a lot, and rarely makes sense. They took four hours of my time on Tuesday, mostly with chatter.
The Apartment
That's alright, though--the apartment is stunning. The building was erected in the late 1800s, and its age reflects itself nicely throughout--clawfoot bathtub, original doorhandles and doorplates, two beautiful built-in fixtures (a grand hutch in the dining room and a mirror in the foyer), and high ceilings and moulding throughout. We have a living room, two large bedrooms, a smaller bedroom which will be used for an office, a dining room, kitchen (WITH LARGE PANTRY, WITH WINDOW IN LARGE PANTRY, AS IN A SEPERATE ROOM), private deck, huge bathroom, and a deep closet in almost every room.
I immediately fell in love with it, and insisted on Theo coming down that day to see it. He loved it too. I called my parents, and they came down, security deposit in tow, looked at the apartment, liked it too, and it now belongs to Theo and I.
The Xavi
On out way out, my parents and I were accosted by Xavier, our new downstairs neighbour. I'd already heard horror stories from Carol about his anger in regards to the fact that we're paying $150 less a month than he is, for the same unit, but he was very nice. A 46-year-old gay man, he resembles my Uncle Roy in most every aspect, except the fact that he makes about $700,000 more a year than my uncle. A chief lighting specialist for Lightology, a lighting design company named by Architectural Digest as "the" place to purchase light fixtures, Xavier has used his knowledge of lighting and his well-filled bank account to give his apartment a complete makeover (which really makes no sense, since he will not get anything in return for pouring lots of money into his apartment).
We chatted for about an hour. He then invited me to his cocktail party he was throwing on Saturday. I agreed to be there, with my Theo in tow.
The Aside
Basically, we live with a lot of middle-aged, upper-class gay men. And that scares me, and Theo some as well. Theo kept exasperatingly asking me, "What are we getting INTO?!?!" when I told him about Xavier. Most of the building's tenants have been there for more than five years. Which is unusual for a metropolitan apartment, and means that they really like the building. Most of these people are treating their apartments like condos, which makes it hard for 19-year-old college students to fit in, style-wise.
The Party
We walked around the block once or twice, upon getting there. (My new apartment is only a few blocks west of my current living space.) We were nervous. Eventually we went in. I grabbed Theo and I a drink (Martinis--are they SUPPOSED to have the olive brine poured into them? I was confused.) from a bartender Xavier hired. I gave him a tour of his apartment, and I don't think he liked it. (My decorative taste centers around symmetry and themes. Every room should have a BASIC theme and centralized colour scheme. Theo...I don't really understand his design strategies. But, he hated Xavi's place because each room has a theme.) We met some of our neighbours, and two of them actually took us to their apartments and gave us a tour. One man, Dan, I really liked. He is an interior designer/furniture businessman (or something), and his unit was gorgeous. The other two gentlemen we met had just moved in two weeks ago, so their apartment was still white.
Everyone has nice furniture, though. Fuck.
Monday, April 14, 2003
Sleeping Pills and Chocolate Milk
These are just a couple of my cravings. Or rather, addictions. I've taken one every night since last Wednesday. It's so much easier to pass out to Philip Glass, in a blue pill-driven state of delerium, than sit around and wait for my body to naturally fall asleep. I don'tlike chocolate milk, by the way--I was just making a reference to a Rufus song.
I hate how popcorn just disappears. Once you lose track of it, after it falls from your hand, it vaporizes.
It was such a beautiful day today--I drank two venti Caramel Frappucinos to commemorate the weather, and my lack of sleep. Theo slept over again last night, and had to wake up at 5:00AM this morning. I took a sleeping pill before I jumped into bed, and yet I still was unable to fall asleep. So, when my alarm went off, I was in no mood to go with him to Evanston, where his car was, and drink coffee and study all morning. So, instead I missed my first two classes (GR!) and I've been trying to make up for it since. So far, I've:
1. Almost finished Alice Sebold's Lucky
2. Almost finished my research for my fieldwork project
3. Started cleaning/packing up my room
4. Worked on Saul's composition piece that some of us are performing
5. Washed my bookbags
Oh! Praise Jesasa--someone has been found to occupy my room for the summer. I don't remember her name, or who she's acquainted with--all I care about is that
a. I get my security deposit back
b. (for her sake) she never finds this journal.
I hate the smell of fish more than I hate the smell of rotting animal feces.
To conclude, I leave you with a quotation from comedian Chris Rock, on the current state of the world:
"You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest guy in the NBA is Chinese, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the U.S. of arrogance, Germany doesn't want to go to war, and the three most powerful men in America are named 'Bush', 'Dick', and 'Colon'. Need I say more?"
These are just a couple of my cravings. Or rather, addictions. I've taken one every night since last Wednesday. It's so much easier to pass out to Philip Glass, in a blue pill-driven state of delerium, than sit around and wait for my body to naturally fall asleep. I don'tlike chocolate milk, by the way--I was just making a reference to a Rufus song.
I hate how popcorn just disappears. Once you lose track of it, after it falls from your hand, it vaporizes.
It was such a beautiful day today--I drank two venti Caramel Frappucinos to commemorate the weather, and my lack of sleep. Theo slept over again last night, and had to wake up at 5:00AM this morning. I took a sleeping pill before I jumped into bed, and yet I still was unable to fall asleep. So, when my alarm went off, I was in no mood to go with him to Evanston, where his car was, and drink coffee and study all morning. So, instead I missed my first two classes (GR!) and I've been trying to make up for it since. So far, I've:
1. Almost finished Alice Sebold's Lucky
2. Almost finished my research for my fieldwork project
3. Started cleaning/packing up my room
4. Worked on Saul's composition piece that some of us are performing
5. Washed my bookbags
Oh! Praise Jesasa--someone has been found to occupy my room for the summer. I don't remember her name, or who she's acquainted with--all I care about is that
a. I get my security deposit back
b. (for her sake) she never finds this journal.
I hate the smell of fish more than I hate the smell of rotting animal feces.
To conclude, I leave you with a quotation from comedian Chris Rock, on the current state of the world:
"You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest guy in the NBA is Chinese, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the U.S. of arrogance, Germany doesn't want to go to war, and the three most powerful men in America are named 'Bush', 'Dick', and 'Colon'. Need I say more?"
Saturday, April 12, 2003
Mass in the key of Shit
It wasn't that bad. I don't know--I'm really critical, with good reason--this is the first time I've PAID to be a part of a choir, and in reality, my high school's choir (even in its wekest days) was more impressive than Loyola's only audition-required ensemble. The same archetypes apply to all choirs--the really bad singer who asks everyone how his/her performance was, the diva who's just too good to be a part of an ensemble of this low caliber, etc.
More to come--have to go get Theo.
It wasn't that bad. I don't know--I'm really critical, with good reason--this is the first time I've PAID to be a part of a choir, and in reality, my high school's choir (even in its wekest days) was more impressive than Loyola's only audition-required ensemble. The same archetypes apply to all choirs--the really bad singer who asks everyone how his/her performance was, the diva who's just too good to be a part of an ensemble of this low caliber, etc.
More to come--have to go get Theo.
Singing/Dancing/Begging
So, after seeing "Chicago" with Zoe and going out to Clark's with Zoe (who I really like) and her friend Derek (whose company was also fun), I decided to walk home. Basically, I felt confident in my physical appearance today, and what better place to display my prettiness than...walking down Halsted! Of course, no one approached me. (Unlike last Sunday's trip to the Jewel...scary.) I should rephrase that--no one approached me in a sexual way.
While I was strolling down Cornelia, betwixt Halsted and Elaine, a frantic middle-aged straight man excitedly asked me where Belmont and Western was, and if this was the only Cornelia and Broadway intersection in Chicago. I said I didn't know where Western was (because I didn't really know), and that this was the ONLY Broadway and Cornelia in Chicago (a fact I'm quite sure of). He asked to use my phone--I said no, and good luck. I walked away.
I was sort of following him, by default--he was walking east, as was I. He turned around and decided to explain his "story." It was something about him moving here from Massachusetts (he had an accent) a few days ago, and his friend who had his luggage was at the police station at Belmont/Western. He needed $18 to complement the $82 his friend had for bail money. So, I gave him a twenty and was on my way.
No, no...I'm not that stupid.
I gave him $5 and sent him on his way. Why did I do this? I definitely asked myself this question on my way back to my apartment. I reasoned with myself for a bit, and realized that if someone needing oney is going to give you a well-thought out story, that seems remotely plausible, either he needs the money for legitimate purposes relating to his tale, or he's just a very clever performer and deserves a small payment for the momentary excitement brought into my day. I've only done this twice before--once with Erin in an unknown, scary part of Chicago (GREAT story--a total sum of $8, I think, was awarded), and once with Zoe and Tripp back in February (Sad story about his son or something--that only earned him $1). All three used props, and were desperate-sounding. I like that. I don't feel better about it afterwards, because I soon realize that I've wasted my hard-earned (ha!) dollars.
"Chicago" was better than I expected. Of course, I would have done a lot of things differently if I directed--like cast sopranos as soprano-singing roles and altos as alto-singing roles--but if one looks at the whole show holistically, it was quite well done. Applause.
Dreadful choir concert tomorrow. Apartments on Sunday.
So, after seeing "Chicago" with Zoe and going out to Clark's with Zoe (who I really like) and her friend Derek (whose company was also fun), I decided to walk home. Basically, I felt confident in my physical appearance today, and what better place to display my prettiness than...walking down Halsted! Of course, no one approached me. (Unlike last Sunday's trip to the Jewel...scary.) I should rephrase that--no one approached me in a sexual way.
While I was strolling down Cornelia, betwixt Halsted and Elaine, a frantic middle-aged straight man excitedly asked me where Belmont and Western was, and if this was the only Cornelia and Broadway intersection in Chicago. I said I didn't know where Western was (because I didn't really know), and that this was the ONLY Broadway and Cornelia in Chicago (a fact I'm quite sure of). He asked to use my phone--I said no, and good luck. I walked away.
I was sort of following him, by default--he was walking east, as was I. He turned around and decided to explain his "story." It was something about him moving here from Massachusetts (he had an accent) a few days ago, and his friend who had his luggage was at the police station at Belmont/Western. He needed $18 to complement the $82 his friend had for bail money. So, I gave him a twenty and was on my way.
No, no...I'm not that stupid.
I gave him $5 and sent him on his way. Why did I do this? I definitely asked myself this question on my way back to my apartment. I reasoned with myself for a bit, and realized that if someone needing oney is going to give you a well-thought out story, that seems remotely plausible, either he needs the money for legitimate purposes relating to his tale, or he's just a very clever performer and deserves a small payment for the momentary excitement brought into my day. I've only done this twice before--once with Erin in an unknown, scary part of Chicago (GREAT story--a total sum of $8, I think, was awarded), and once with Zoe and Tripp back in February (Sad story about his son or something--that only earned him $1). All three used props, and were desperate-sounding. I like that. I don't feel better about it afterwards, because I soon realize that I've wasted my hard-earned (ha!) dollars.
"Chicago" was better than I expected. Of course, I would have done a lot of things differently if I directed--like cast sopranos as soprano-singing roles and altos as alto-singing roles--but if one looks at the whole show holistically, it was quite well done. Applause.
Dreadful choir concert tomorrow. Apartments on Sunday.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
L.O.V.E. and You and I
I can honestly say I've never been more tired in my recollectable lifetime than I am today. (With the exception of my second day in London.) Judging from what I can hear outside my bedroom, I don't think tonight's "slumber" will be much more productive than that of recent nights. Why should I have to travel back to the suburbs to get a decent night's sleep? I'm having trouble focusing my vision, even. Which was not good, as I visited two potential living spaces this afternoon.
I liked one, and could tolerate the other.
Between apartment viewings, I spent my afternoon reading through my archived journal entries. It's strange, because as I read them, it didn't seem like I was reading about myself--many of the topics that earned the right to be published had long been forgotten. To add to my fatigued depression was my writing style--I saw something in those entries that I rarely see nowadays. How has my writing ability declined over the course of a year? I simply don't understand.
Must try to obey the sleeping pill that's shouting orders from my stomach.
I can honestly say I've never been more tired in my recollectable lifetime than I am today. (With the exception of my second day in London.) Judging from what I can hear outside my bedroom, I don't think tonight's "slumber" will be much more productive than that of recent nights. Why should I have to travel back to the suburbs to get a decent night's sleep? I'm having trouble focusing my vision, even. Which was not good, as I visited two potential living spaces this afternoon.
I liked one, and could tolerate the other.
Between apartment viewings, I spent my afternoon reading through my archived journal entries. It's strange, because as I read them, it didn't seem like I was reading about myself--many of the topics that earned the right to be published had long been forgotten. To add to my fatigued depression was my writing style--I saw something in those entries that I rarely see nowadays. How has my writing ability declined over the course of a year? I simply don't understand.
Must try to obey the sleeping pill that's shouting orders from my stomach.
"America," Allen Ginsberg
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
tions.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Berkeley, January 17, 1956
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
tions.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
Berkeley, January 17, 1956
Moment of the Week
So, Theo slept over last night. We went to bed around midnight, because he had to work today. He fell asleep before I was even finished taking my contacts out, and when I came in the bedroom, he shot up, and loudly asked, "What? Brian, what? What's the matter?" Apparently, he had been dreaming or something. Then, as I tried to fall asleep to the sounds of "%()@&$)*@&%#ITH (HAHAHAHAHAHA) @)$(YHFNWKH$*##*%$@," he shot up again. "Dukie?" he asked. Duke is his dog's name. I laughed for quite some time.
I forgot to mention this. My field work site, for a Cultural Anthropology project (going to a "sub-culture" and figuring them out or something), decided to close, in the crucial week before the ethnography (essay about findings) is due. I had done some observations prior to this week (more than I figured I'd do), but I still needed so much from them. Oh well. I'll figure it out, I suppose. (Which will involve me scrambling to Scotch-tape bullshit together, no doubt.)
My life is quite screwed up as of late, thanks to my involuntarily-altered sleep schedule. After yet another long night/early morning of #(#Bjpie8*)@$&_(NJuih389h on Tuesday, my alarm went off at 8:45AM, and I was in no shape to go to class. I missed a quiz and getting two graded papers back. Everything is so fucked right now.
So, Theo slept over last night. We went to bed around midnight, because he had to work today. He fell asleep before I was even finished taking my contacts out, and when I came in the bedroom, he shot up, and loudly asked, "What? Brian, what? What's the matter?" Apparently, he had been dreaming or something. Then, as I tried to fall asleep to the sounds of "%()@&$)*@&%#ITH (HAHAHAHAHAHA) @)$(YHFNWKH$*##*%$@," he shot up again. "Dukie?" he asked. Duke is his dog's name. I laughed for quite some time.
I forgot to mention this. My field work site, for a Cultural Anthropology project (going to a "sub-culture" and figuring them out or something), decided to close, in the crucial week before the ethnography (essay about findings) is due. I had done some observations prior to this week (more than I figured I'd do), but I still needed so much from them. Oh well. I'll figure it out, I suppose. (Which will involve me scrambling to Scotch-tape bullshit together, no doubt.)
My life is quite screwed up as of late, thanks to my involuntarily-altered sleep schedule. After yet another long night/early morning of #(#Bjpie8*)@$&_(NJuih389h on Tuesday, my alarm went off at 8:45AM, and I was in no shape to go to class. I missed a quiz and getting two graded papers back. Everything is so fucked right now.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
Plagiarism Alert: Code Red
How is this April? Someone help me understand, please.
After debating whether or not to go to school yesterday, I decided to go simply because I knew I would get my graded philosophy paper back. So, the class begins, and my professor announces that she's quite angry because three people in my class plagiarized other sources in their most recent papers. She said she would hold office hours instead of having a class period, in case the guilty parties wanted to see her. Of course, everyone in the class (myself included) feared that we were the plagiarizers. So, after realizing she'd have a class of thirty students lined up at her office door, she decided to go into the hall, and take brief meetings with anyone concerned about the status of their papers.
I was worried as hell. First, I chose to include a few outside sources, and may have forgotten to cite them. PLus, my topic was one that was rather unusual in itself, so I was even more concerned. To top this off, she made a comment about one of these people just starting here, and that she wouldn't want to ruin the rest of their academic career.
So, I went into the hall. She asked me if I was sincerely concerned about my paper. I said yes, and explained reasons one and two. She said, "No, no. Of course it wasn't you." She showed me my paper. Apparently she really enjoyed it--she told me she didn't write many comments because "when I'm interested in something I read in a student's paper, I forget to make comments." I got a high A. Whew.
The rest of the day was alright--remember how I used to complain ad nauseum about my high school choir? Well, I'm in college now, in the "best" choir at Loyola, and we're absolutely horrible, thanks to the lack of interest my director shows in fixing obvious problems. So once again, I'm embarassed about my choir. I thought collegiate choral ensembles were supposed to be "good." Oh well. I'm not going to do this next semester.
I spent my evening with Zoe--and had a great deal of fun in doing so. She loaned me two books that I've started plowing through. We're seeing "Chicago" together on Friday.
Today, I'm ideally going apartment shopping.
How is this April? Someone help me understand, please.
After debating whether or not to go to school yesterday, I decided to go simply because I knew I would get my graded philosophy paper back. So, the class begins, and my professor announces that she's quite angry because three people in my class plagiarized other sources in their most recent papers. She said she would hold office hours instead of having a class period, in case the guilty parties wanted to see her. Of course, everyone in the class (myself included) feared that we were the plagiarizers. So, after realizing she'd have a class of thirty students lined up at her office door, she decided to go into the hall, and take brief meetings with anyone concerned about the status of their papers.
I was worried as hell. First, I chose to include a few outside sources, and may have forgotten to cite them. PLus, my topic was one that was rather unusual in itself, so I was even more concerned. To top this off, she made a comment about one of these people just starting here, and that she wouldn't want to ruin the rest of their academic career.
So, I went into the hall. She asked me if I was sincerely concerned about my paper. I said yes, and explained reasons one and two. She said, "No, no. Of course it wasn't you." She showed me my paper. Apparently she really enjoyed it--she told me she didn't write many comments because "when I'm interested in something I read in a student's paper, I forget to make comments." I got a high A. Whew.
The rest of the day was alright--remember how I used to complain ad nauseum about my high school choir? Well, I'm in college now, in the "best" choir at Loyola, and we're absolutely horrible, thanks to the lack of interest my director shows in fixing obvious problems. So once again, I'm embarassed about my choir. I thought collegiate choral ensembles were supposed to be "good." Oh well. I'm not going to do this next semester.
I spent my evening with Zoe--and had a great deal of fun in doing so. She loaned me two books that I've started plowing through. We're seeing "Chicago" together on Friday.
Today, I'm ideally going apartment shopping.
Sunday, April 06, 2003
Well.
It looks like I'm going to have to censor the content of my postings from now on, upon learning that my father now reads this journal. My father, ladies and gentlemen. I found my journal in his "Favourites" file. So, yeah.
Long weekend. I saw Far From Heaven, ate at Cornelia's, went apartment shopping, went to lunc with my grandfather/family, visited "The Scene" with Theo and Mike, bought some socks...I think that's all. I'm tired. And my apartment is bustling with alcohol and loud people.
And it's a Sunday. If they want me to "keep my word," what about their "words" to uphold the "quiet hours?" Yeah...no. Not going to happen.
If anyone's looking to live in Lakeview, and have their own bedroom and bathroom for a small montly fee, and is deaf and blind, contact me and disregard everything I've ever posted here about the apartment.
It looks like I'm going to have to censor the content of my postings from now on, upon learning that my father now reads this journal. My father, ladies and gentlemen. I found my journal in his "Favourites" file. So, yeah.
Long weekend. I saw Far From Heaven, ate at Cornelia's, went apartment shopping, went to lunc with my grandfather/family, visited "The Scene" with Theo and Mike, bought some socks...I think that's all. I'm tired. And my apartment is bustling with alcohol and loud people.
And it's a Sunday. If they want me to "keep my word," what about their "words" to uphold the "quiet hours?" Yeah...no. Not going to happen.
If anyone's looking to live in Lakeview, and have their own bedroom and bathroom for a small montly fee, and is deaf and blind, contact me and disregard everything I've ever posted here about the apartment.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
My fellow Americans...
There's a poll on the Chicago Tribune's web page asking, "Is Saddam Hussein dead or alive?" I don't know about the rest of my fellow citizens, but I don't think I can make that judgement. Hmm. (Of those well-informed Trib readers who CAN make the judgement, 58.6% believe he is, in fact, alive.)
There's a poll on the Chicago Tribune's web page asking, "Is Saddam Hussein dead or alive?" I don't know about the rest of my fellow citizens, but I don't think I can make that judgement. Hmm. (Of those well-informed Trib readers who CAN make the judgement, 58.6% believe he is, in fact, alive.)
Liberation
This evening, I told my roommates about my plans to move out at the end of April. Unsurprisingly, no one opposed it--in fact, they're having a celebration right now to comemmorate this momentous occasion.
So, I'm moving out. This may not come as much of a surprise, but Theo and I will be finding a place together. A two bedroom, of course. You see, when one lives with roommates, he must have two relationships with each roommate--a friendship (not necessary, I suppose) and a more businesslike relationship as a roommate. So, while I hope that Theo and I remain in our romantic relationship throughout our lease, we're also carrying on a non-emotional roommate-appropriate relationship.
It's not like we're married. I won't prance around calling him my "partner."
I don't know why I have to defend myself to myself--perhaps it's because I still fear that I am committing too soon. This really is a broad step--moving in with my boyfriend. Like Theo, I have fears about this living situation. But, ultimately, I think everything will work out. I think I have permission to be scared.
I had a "middle-eastern" cuisine night. (I would have called it "Indian," but since one of the meal's components was, acc. to Theo, not exclusively Indian, I cannot use that title.) I made falafel (fried ground chick peas, with good spices and other things) from a mix my aunt purchased for me at the Pita Inn Supermarket. She also bought me some fresh-baked pitas and Baba Ganouj (garlic eggplant sauce), and I enjoyed those as well, while listening to "Hindi Bindi," my mildly-offensively-titled song playlist.
I do hate acquiescing in an argument, and biting my tongue. I suppose it'll be worth it, in the long run.
This evening, I told my roommates about my plans to move out at the end of April. Unsurprisingly, no one opposed it--in fact, they're having a celebration right now to comemmorate this momentous occasion.
So, I'm moving out. This may not come as much of a surprise, but Theo and I will be finding a place together. A two bedroom, of course. You see, when one lives with roommates, he must have two relationships with each roommate--a friendship (not necessary, I suppose) and a more businesslike relationship as a roommate. So, while I hope that Theo and I remain in our romantic relationship throughout our lease, we're also carrying on a non-emotional roommate-appropriate relationship.
It's not like we're married. I won't prance around calling him my "partner."
I don't know why I have to defend myself to myself--perhaps it's because I still fear that I am committing too soon. This really is a broad step--moving in with my boyfriend. Like Theo, I have fears about this living situation. But, ultimately, I think everything will work out. I think I have permission to be scared.
I had a "middle-eastern" cuisine night. (I would have called it "Indian," but since one of the meal's components was, acc. to Theo, not exclusively Indian, I cannot use that title.) I made falafel (fried ground chick peas, with good spices and other things) from a mix my aunt purchased for me at the Pita Inn Supermarket. She also bought me some fresh-baked pitas and Baba Ganouj (garlic eggplant sauce), and I enjoyed those as well, while listening to "Hindi Bindi," my mildly-offensively-titled song playlist.
I do hate acquiescing in an argument, and biting my tongue. I suppose it'll be worth it, in the long run.