Another Dense, Boring Update

So, it's 8:40 AM on a crisp, chilly Saturday morning. Fortunately, as of thirty seconds ago I have heat (which means my apartment will no longer be 60 degrees and the city can stop coming over to hear my fellow tenants and me grouse about the landlord), but unfortunately, it's 8:41 and I am awake. I figured that, since there's nothing else to do in these early morning hours but drink coffee (check), eat breakfast (check), or go jogging (. . .), I would update.

Traveling from less caustic to moreso, we'll begin with school. School is always good--always meeting new people, learning new things, falling in love with a wonderful professor. My English teacher, whom at first I disliked, has grown on me, little by little. I'm still not a fan of working out of anthologies, nor do I care for the pieces she chooses, but she has a great sense of humor. My Environmental Studies professor, on the other hand, took no warming up to. Dr. French has this horribly wonderful way of being so wry and sarcastic about the Bush administration without actually being unprofessional about it. My Environmental Studies class (basically a hippie "Save the world!" kind of class, with a smidgen of God on the side) surpasses all of my other classes (even bland Euro. film), which is ironic considering it was a last minute "my mother will think it's better than urdu" switch.

Hmm...next happiest thing in life must be...media apparati. I'm still in the habit of reading class-assigned books less than my own personal books. Bah. I finished The Devil Wears Prada--hated it, working on The Autograph Man by Zadie Smith--enjoying it--and Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides--loving it. I haven't had time to see any films recently, but I did purchase Want One, Rufus Wainwright's new CD. Wat a great album--it's quite a "departure" from his last album, Poses, with less musical theater-esque songs (still a few) and more pseudo-Coldplay and just good "pop/rock" tunes. Tim will be getting this CD in the mail (I'll be burning it in effigy for him, as a retaliatory measure against the RIAA) within the next few weeks.

Briefly, work is terrible. Too much working (22 working hours compacted into three days in a row) combined with new administration (it's like comparing Bush to Clinton--very...different...in that euphemistic way), combined with the fact that I'm STILL not receiving paychecks at my store, nor am I getting paid the right amount, just means that I'm generally unhappy about my job and would love to work somewhere else. My co-worker told me about his group interview for H&M (which is superwonderful!), and it thoroughly discouraged me from re-applying. Apparently, they did these hokey group exercises, like building a castle out of same-colored Legos while passing a tennis ball or something, which does NOT appeal to me. I'd like to get some pittly job at the Chicago Free Press, since it's right up the street from my apartment. We'll see.

And, unsurprisingly, my relations with other humans are suffering as usual. Erin is horribly angry with me because I've (self-admittedly) pretty much ignored her for the past two months. Lauren hates me because I haven't called her back, and she's called my house/cell phone (which was buried somewhere in my car for two weeks) many times. Theo...as I, ironically, fight with him at this very moment...Theo and I have had some difficulties as of late. I'm hoping we can make it through at least the lease period. Yeah, it's that bad.

Agh. Now I'm in a bad mood--I should have written about the "bad" things first. I'll make more of a concerted effort to post with somre regularity, and speak to those people with whom I desperately need to speak. Off to work for 87 hours, and then a party, if Theo and I don't start fighting when I return from work (as usual). AGH.

GOP Bumper Stickers (Thanks, Dad)

Bush/Cheney '04: Four More Wars!

Bush/Cheney '04: Assimilate. Resistance is Futile.

Bush/Cheney '04: Apocalypse Now!

Bush/Cheney '04: Because the truth just isn't good enough

Bush/Cheney '04: Compassionate Colonialism

Bush/Cheney '04: Deja-voodoo all over again!

Bush/Cheney '04: Get used to it!

Bush/Cheney '04: In your heart, you know they're technically correct.

Bush/Cheney '04: Leave no billionaire behind

Bush/Cheney '04: Less CIA -- More CYA

Bush/Cheney '04: Lies and videotape but no sex!

Bush/Cheney '04: Making the world a better place, one country at a time.

Bush/Cheney '04: Or else.

Bush/Cheney '04: Over a billion Whoppers served.

Bush/Cheney '04: Putting the "con" in conservatism

Bush/Cheney '04: Thank you for not paying attention

Bush/Cheney '04: The last vote you'll ever have to cast.

Bush/Cheney '04: This time, elect us!

Bush/Cheney '04: We're Gooder!

Bush/Cheney '04: Asses of Evil

Bush/Cheney '04: The economy's stupid!

George W. Bush: A brainwave away from the presidency

George W. Bush: It takes a village idiot

George W. Bush: Leadership without a doubt

George W. Bush: The buck stops Over There

Vote Bush in '04: "I Has Incumbentory Advantitude"

Vote Bush in '04: "Because every vote counts -- for me!"

Vote Bush in '04: "Because I'm the President, that's why!"

Vote Bush in '04: Because dictatorship is easier

Vote Bush in '04: It's a no-brainer! Don't think.

Vote Bush! God Save the King! Let Them Eat Yellowcake!

Vote Bush! Peace & Prosperity Suck -- Big-Time

BU__SH__!

Vote for Bush & You Get Dick!

Who Would Jesus Bomb?

P.S. If you have read this far, under Section 17 H(2)a.3 of the Patriot Act, you are under arrest.

Iowa

I heart Bill Clinton and Howard Dean. And Tom Harkin's pretty nifty too.

I had a great time visiting Allison at Grinnell this weekend--it was about time she and I got to know each oher a bit better. While my car is quite broken, it managed to get Theo and I to and from Iowa.

I have a gross, disgusting cold.

Weird

As of this evening, my journal has been accessed over 15,000 times. How odd. About half of them are me, I'm sure.

Media Reviews

I knew I'd have to start Blogging again eventually. This seemed like a logical way to do it without keeping myself up for hours trying to recall everything that has happened recently.

Books

I'd been reding Dave Eggers' You Shall Know Our Velocity!, until I was at Barnes and Noble one night, and it happened to be the night before Jhumpa Lahiri's new book The Namesake was released. So, I purchased, read, and enjoyed that. (Lahiri won the Pulitzer for fiction a few years ago, and is a great Indian-American author.) Then, I picked up Eggers' book again, which I soon lost interest with (even though Eggers is one of my favorite authors from the past ten years) because Zoe told me about a "surprise" about 3/4 of the way into the book, and when I got to that surprise, I was disappointed. So, I started reading Jennifer Finney Boylan's She's Not There, which is a collection of autobiographical short stories charting the Colby professor's evolution "from a man named Jim to a woman named Jenny." I never knew much about transsexuality, and even though I'd call this book self-indulgent fluff (for the most part), I did learn quite a bit about the "tranny" thing. I thought about returning to Eggers, but instead decided to start on Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a book written in first-person by a 15-year-old autistic boy. Really quite entertaining and well-written so far. I should be done with that by the end of tomorrow.

Films

This evening, Theo and I saw Party Monster, a film about two gay "club kids" (played amusingly by Macaluay Culkin and Seth Green) involved in drugs, sex, party hosting, and other fun things. My favorite lines? "I'm not addicted to drugs...I'm addicted to glamour." "I thought of a wonderful sentence today." The plot was just as thin as the spandex club outfits worn throughout the film, but I found mself laughing quite a bit. I rented Raising Victor Vargas a few nights ago, which was "cute," and Theo and I saw Freaky Friday last weekend (I think), and it was also "cute."

Music

I've been frightened by the RIAA, so I'm no longer file sharing, which means I'm no longer finding new songs. I do like Black Eyed Peas' "Where is the Love?", which isn't surprising because they are great. And the soundtrack to Camp should be arriving in the mail soon, along with the rest of my textbooks.

Otherwise, I've fully submerged myself in the semester, and with working at least 16 hours each weekend, I've had little time for relaxation. There are so many people I need to contact, socially. Three good things about the week ahead:

1. Friday: H&M opens on Michigan Ave. at noon. Well of COURSE I'll be there.
2. Weekend: Theo and I are driving out to Iowa to attend Sen. Tom Harkin's Steak Fry, a political event that will feature Bill Clinton and all nine Democratic presidential candidates as speakers. We're staying with Allison, Theo's friend, who goes to Grinnell. (This really really excites me, in case my lack of extraneous exclamation points confuses anyone.)
3. Monday: I get to pick up my nifty jacket from Polo, after having (free) alterations worked on this week.

Need sleep.

Useless crap.

I find it important to weave strands of the past into the textiles of the present and future. Take me, one year ago--I was in a new environment doing something I'd never done before. Regardless of how many otherwise-unexplored things I dealt with, I always had Erin to connect me to myself and my memories. Truly, I can only remember my fondest moments of Mizzou now, and nearly all of them involved her in one way or another. Now, I have Lauren, my partner in crime throughout high school (and hopefully into the next chapter of our lives), to once again ground myself and force me to remember what I've achieved and experienced so far. I may live in the past too much, but I think that one must take two steps forward in life, and then take a single step back, to be able to appreciate how he came to this point--to see the full collage instead of just the one condensed segment.

My first day of class. Somehow, I mistakenly enrolled in a poetry-writing advanced ADVANCED course, and I have no idea what I should do. I'm thinking I should do Wednesday's workshop and see where to go from there. (Those of you who don't know me and my relationship with poetry--I generally despise it and cannot write it. I'm way too verbose.)

More stress culminated when I realized that Tripp and I share a class together, European Film. It's horrible, because I don't know what terms we're on, or how to stealthily approach the situation. Or, if there's even a situation to approach, since I'm beginning to feel like the entire gay male population at Loyola despises me. (But then again, conversations between me and acquaintances never really go well, because I start getting weird and then start saying what I'm thinking about myself and in the end I just want to flee the social crime scene, as it were.)

I'm going to have 1,000 papers due, and I have to do class presentations in two or three of my classes--something I hoped I'd never have to do again.

This post was blandoori.

Tradition

For as long as I've been able and willing to swallow pills, I've taken one sleeping pill each night before the dawn of a new school year. This day has always found me awash in a thousand scattered emotions--excitement, fear, anxiety, curiosity. This year, I feel void of all of these. I have no real idea what the next several months will present me with, nor have I had the time to analyze the possible perils I will make my own and grow from. I suppose all that I can hope for is the best.

Freedom

Today and tomorrow have been officially designated "responsibility-free" days by me, since starting Monday, I'll be waking up at 7AM every morning and working all weekend every weekend. I'm really not ready to begin school again--my summer moved at such a frantic pace, what with working and taking classes. Bah.

I've spent my week reinforcing stereotypes--got my nails done, eyebrows waxed (complete with long red scabs!), and went shopping. I bought some white pants (cheap!), some shirts to wear to work that aren't from Gap, and this great coat (left) from the Polo Ralph Lauren store. They're tailoring it for me and everything.

Tonight, hopefully Theo and I will spend some time not fighting.

Important Political Propaganda

(A letter I've been requested to send to my fellow voters)

Hello!

I’m writing you because I want you to join me at a Dean campaign event that I'm attending. Howard Dean is the only candidate running for President who says what he thinks, and acts on what he says. I think he’s dead on, and the only candidate making sense about foreign policy, health care, and fiscal responsibility. Dean is not only taking on Bush, but directly addressing the failures of the Democratic party to give people a reason to vote. He also has a powerful record of success as Governor of Vermont. If you don’t know about him, visit his website:

http://deanforamerica.com

You can sign up for my event here: http://action.deanforamerica.com
Type in your zip code and find my event in the list of events in our area.

I don’t want money to decide who leads this country, and for the first time in a long time, it might not because Dean is running a very grassroots campaign that relies upon people like us to go out and spread the word.

Its inspiring to be a part of something this big, but where each of us still counts. Even if this is the first time you have heard of Howard Dean, or if you are unsure about who you support, please come along and learn more. Howard Dean's campaign is important to me, personally, and I think it is critical to the country. Also, it should be fun.

Thanks! I hope you come! Here's the info on the event(s):

People-Powered Howard Sleepless Summer Tour
Navy Pier, Terrace D Rooftop, 600 East Grand Avenue
Tuesday, August 26, 11:00 AM
Come join Howard Dean and thousands of others as we rally to take our country back! 11:00AM-1:00PM

Hope any of you in the Chicagoland area who share similar views with Dean on abortion, war, education, taxes, and gay rights (which can be viewed here) are able to attend.

More from me to come soon.

Market Days "Pre-Party"

My Market Days weekend began shortly after 1:00AM, when the city crews began making as much noise as they could assembling and placing the "Road Closed" blockades. This was directly followed by the "market crews" erecting their lead pipe tents. From what I could tell, either they were drunk while assembling their "markets," or they were trying their damnedest to make as much noise as possible. A miraculous fifteen minutes of sleep fit its way into there somehow, which ended as Theo came into his room to ask why I wasn't sleeping in my own bed (he kept rolling on top of me, or "climbing all over me," as I bluntly put it). Then...ta da! Like some sick joke, the sun emerges and says to me, "Nay, nay, Brian--no sleep for you tonight."

So, I put an end to my angry thrashing about in bed, took a shower, and headed towards IHOP, the only place I could think of that was serving food at 6:40AM. I brought a few books with me and this morning's Tribune, hoping to catch up on some reading. Oh, but no...

Mr. Smelly McDrunk from the adjacent booth strikes up a Hall & Oates-themed conversation with me (Note to self: who the FUCK are Hall & Oates? Will research later), and asks if he can come over and talk with me for a few minutes. So, we discuss life...or rather, he loudly, erratically tells me about his life. He never mentioned that he was homeless, and he very well may not be, but judging from his situation ("I have nothing to live for," etc.), and the way he was eyeing my bacon, I assume he was. So, two hours later, and after my waiter passed my/our table and mouthed the words, "are you ok?" to me every five minutes, Jeff (he never introduced himself, but he liked to talk in the third person) and I parted ways.

Now I am at home, tired, crabby, and ill-feeling. Looking forward to a grrrreat day!

Knock-off Art

Theo and I just saw what I am about to brazenly call "the year's best film": Stephen Frears' Dirty Pretty Things. Unsurprisingly, this is not a typical film, nor is it American. This British film, starring (among others) Audrey Tautou (Amelie) in her most demanding role so far, revolves around the shady dealings of a London hotel and the illegal immigrants who are both disgusted and tempted by this false freedom said "dealings" give. Mike Meyer's tagline for Wayne's World comes to mind when I think of this gem: I laughed, I cried, I hurled. This movie played the roles of moving drama, gruesome thriller, delightful comedy, and elegant romance without allowing a single drip of sweat to roll down its brow. I urge everyone to see and enjoy this film.

I find it ironic that the two films I've seen this year (British mystery Swimming Pool being the other) that have given me just cause to respect film as an art form did not carry US passports. One of America's most acclaimed creative outlets has, over the course of several decades, turned into an industry, like oil mining or lumberjacking. Except, instead of raping Earth, we're raping the fundamental goal of film: to brush the vast pallette of human emotions onto a fluid canvas. Numbers are not art--art is made of colors, words, emotions, and independent thought. I wish that these so-called artists we throw our $9.00 at every Friday night would start living up to their craft, instead of cranking out these sweatshop knock-offs we buy, thinking to ourselves, "It's close enough to the real thing."

Another Non-Post

Yes, it's that time of the year again: Gap Friends and Family Days are upon us once again. Since I'm just that charitable, I'll share the online code with all of you so that you may enjoy a 30% discount on all items purchased between Thursday, August 7 through Sunday August 10 from Gap.com. It is:

FFDAYGAP

Simply enter this code at the checkout in the appropriate box. In case you need this information, I work at Gap # 503.

As far as the fall line goes, I'm quite pleased with what our designers have conjured up for the women's line. A lot of paisley blouses, great new washes in our low-rise boot cut and long and leans, and a definite emphasis on "fashion," as opposed to "K-Mart basic sweats," which has been our overall look for some time. Oh, and our new women's bags have a definite Dior feel to them, with their cargo pockets and nice detail work. They were created by Marc Jacobs' bag designer, which is kind of exciting.

As one might expect, the men's line is bland, big, and boring. Everything you saw/purchased last fall at Gap is again available, for $5-10 more. My store is called a "top store," which means we bring in more money than most stores and therefore have access to the more fashionable pieces of each line. We now carry the men's version of the low-rise boot fit, which were surprisingly alright. Not fitted enough for me, of course, but I think that many of you would like them.

Theo's grandmother is dying, so I probably won't be seeing him for several days, as she'll be buried in Texas. Lauren and Katie's birthday party was fun, yet horrible and sad at the same time. I have the rest of the week off of work, which means I will inevetably loll around the apartment and watch a lot of movies and (hopefully) get a nice dent in the books I've purchased this summer that I haven't gotten a chance to read. That's all, I suppose.

Too tired to really write about this.

As if this week couldn't get any worse...

Guest Appearances

I figured that, since I've found myself running into characters of my past today, I should post, to perhaps remedy this strange phenomenon. I saw Tish and her mannish sidekick today, two women who directed several shows I was in. Curtis, an old friend/stalker, was sitting in Roscoe's (at 6:00PM, no less) talking it up with a few fellows. Lastly, Michelle Andriano (a CTE alum) was standing in the check-out line one person behind me today at Jewel. Fortunately, my hair acted as a mask and none of these people recognized me, or at least, did not stop and strike up a conversation. Who next? My old babysitter? My choir teacher?

Speaking of...and I will get to the connection shortly...how is homosexuality still something that people frown upon? In this open-minded era, where 400,000 people attend a gay-themed parade in Chicago, "Will and Grace" is a popular sitcom, and the majority of the Supreme Court thinks gays should be entitled to privacy just like anyone else, why do some people still think that we're degenerative, sick fucks? Since I've moved to Chicago (home of the nation's largest gay population, many sources believe), I've been severely harassed twice, the most recent while waiting for the El. Not a month goes by that I don't hear "fag" or "homo" or some other slur shouted from a passing car. And, I've recently learned that my choir teacher found it appropriate to pass along second-hand information she received while working at Jacobs about me and my sexuality to her daughter, someone I used to feign friendship with. We may have been closer had she not made it her duty to inform me, at least once every time we gathered, that she thought homosexuality was disgusting and horrible. Allegedly, she asked Lauren, our mutual friend, "So, is Brian STILL gay?" Yes, that's the same tone one would use when asking, "So, is Madonna still into Judaism?" Like this is a phase or something.

I just wish I could avoid my past more successfully. The memories of people and events that have displeased me over the years have, for the most part, been dumped into a garbage bag and placed in the nether-regions of my brain. But I don't have much power over keeping the real people my memories represent from making guest appearances in my life.

Just wondering...

This is not a real post. One of those will find its way here shortly. I wanted to see if I could coerce anyone into seeing the Justified/Stripped concert at the United Center tomorrow night. If you're game, call my cell phone.

Uncharted Landmasses

I'm simply not ready. Ready to deal with things I never thought I'd have to face--at least not now, at this under-developed phase in my life. But, I suppose since I've made it a point to "grow up" quickly, what with getting an apartment in a metropolitan city, living with my boyfriend, and striving to gain a sense of the word "independence," I have no choice but to travel to the less glamourous continents of my new world.

When will we finally change?

I was enjoying today's Tribune when I came across Eric Zorn's column today, entitled "Media failed on porch alert, past accidents." He included a quotation from NSC president Alan McMillan, as follows:

"It seems to be a natural tendency to wait for tragedy to provide the catalyst for change."

He, of course, was referring to the possibility of laws dictating porch capacities attached Chicago's six-flat apartment buildings, and went so far (which I found interesting) to include similar laws passed regarding the use of pepper spray indoors (the E2 disaster, February 2003) and the stringent indoor-pyrotechnic policies now in effect (the Rhode Island concert venue fire, also February 2003).

One could go so far as to say that until September 11, National Security was not a common term found in the media. But in its aftermath, amid the dust and death came decrees for tighter security in our nation. It was only after such a "tragedy" that we saw how vulnerable we were to outside forces, regardless of social stati or occupations.

We as humans, and especially Americans, have a natural propensity to approach everything with a naive, carefree attitude. "So what if I smoke?" "I'm just a social drinker." "Who cares about that friend?" "I really needed a new pair of Prada loafers."

It's not until our grandfather is in the hospital dying of emphysema, or our sister has checked into a drug abuse clinic, or we suddenly need the things that friend we were so swift to dismiss was able to offer, or we lose our job and have to enroll in Welfare just to feed ourselves, do we finally wise up to our shortcomings.

Is it ignorance? Do we honestly believe that bad things really don't happen to (sort-of) good people? Is it comfort? Do we use these habits as blankets, to shield us from the cold din of reality? Is it faith? Do we believe that something above us will protect us from the consequences of our actions?

Or, is it pride? Do we not want to shame ourselves and allow our own worst critics, ourselves, to see how we've been wrong? After all, if we don't have these laws, these committees, these limitations in our lives, it's easier to forget about the "bad things"--the very reasons we have such restrictions.

And, of course, it's easier to prescribe Change than to actually swallow the pill. But, if we observe our vulnerabilities before they're taken advantage of, perhaps we'd have less disasters, less deaths, less unhappiness.

Little Bad Big Good

Normally, I would take this moment to write about is currently irking me, but I'll try to avoid it this time, in observance of a no-Blogging treaty I struck up with someone some time ago. All I'll say is the following: It is true that some friends cannot be roommates, and some friends cannot be...well, friends. I handled situations of months past to the best of my ability, given resources and the situation. The advice that I distributed of late was requested in an E-mail that was clearly not searching for a "yes or no" answer, but rather, a stream of outside thoughts on the matter. I advised when advice was requested (which, in this case, came both directly and implied). To conclude, one shouldn't ask his enemy for advice, especially when the request arrives on a breeze of baptismal amnesty (clearly I mistook this change in weather patterns). That's what friends are for.

I've decided...I feel like I start practically every entry with those words. How many times do I honestly follow through on these decisions? Well, anyways. I've decided to find a new job--something more challenging, something I can respect myself for doing after I clock out, something that might actually be useful and contribute to my occupational future.

This decision comes from two things: one, the fact that I loathe Gap. When I punch my social security number into that time-clock day in and day out, I can feel my dignity osmotically leave my fingertips. I say such foolish and brainless things; I do such tedious and rudimentary things; I think such horrible and sinister things. I can no longer continue like this. I have worked for this company for almost two years. While I have traveled in one direction, Gap has traveled in yet another.

The second motivator(s) involved in this quest for occupational harmony are these fine people. These twelve (now thirteen) men and women were "all on the cusp of something," and after reviewing their accomplishments and future plans, I decided it was time for me to begin sowing the seeds of my future.

I'm not sure where I'll begin. I know I'll have to sacrifice many of my future plans--auditioning for Loyola's fall musical, slacking off in school, dedicating countless hours to interior decorating--to sketch a rough outline of my days, months, and years ahead.

Well, I'm off to start that now, by eating a sandwich and reading some Newsweek.

AAAAAHH!!' (and translation)

I am having the best time of my life. there are at eatst 100 pdeople on my patio rightn now. I hve having the best time of my life! that's the best paryy i've ever been to. there have been perfrormances by drag queens, Irish jiggers na d poera singers. I wish i had friend sto come to thidbs party with me and Theo and our wonderful neighbors and friends!!!!! aagh!!! parade timoeoewwwwrrow.

(Last night, our neighbor threw a massive party...no, it was more than that--an event in the large communal patio area of our building. Last year, he hosted 150 guests, and this year there were quite a few as well, though I never counted. Clearly, Dan (our neighbor) spent a lot of money on decorations (parachute-y lights marking the entrance, red carpet, chandelier hanging over the soiree, a stage area) and alcohol. I, myself ingested much more than I should have (proven by my entry) and threw up last night before going to sleep. Now that's twice that I've vomited from alcohol. No more, no more. Anyways, the performances were great--an opera singer sang a few songs, a few drag queens performed (Margot, Dan's friend, is so fun; theo and I love her), and one of our Irish neighbours from the house next door performed--exceptionally--a bit from Riverdance. We met a lot of great people, who we spent time with today. And, I think we know almost all of our neighbors now, except for two units.)

Blog Sighting

I found yet another friend's "secret" journal today. Some very interesting (and mildly insulting) things were said about me.

I think Theo and I are going to Wicker Park this afternoon, after stopping at Home Depot for some more paint and Circuit City to return some unneeded electronics.

“I have a large rod the size of China lodged in my anus.”

I had the great fortune of running across this "article" this morning, somehow. It reminded me of that whole prom "catastrophe" last year, that just embarassed those Jacobs students who weren't attention-starved like the protagonists of the story. (Anyone who doesn't know what I'm talking about would more than likely not benefit from reading this.)

Red Pen in Action

Living room painted--check.
Credit card almost completely paid off--check.
Made up for lost sleep, after being awake for over 35 hours straight--check.
Inexpensive DVD player purchased with 10% off coupon from Target--check.
Great conversation with Erin for 45 minutes--check.
Watched East is East on new DVD player, will recommend it to everyone--check.
Radiohead's Hail to the Thief downloaded in full--check.

Many more things to be checked off throughout day, such as cleaning the kitchen hardcore, depositing my check, and working for 82,000 hours.

Who do I know besides Erin that works at Marshall Field's and was at my graduation party?

Oh!

Theo is the bestest boyfriend one could request. He bought some cut orchids and sprinkled them about the house, like the thoughtful man he is. I love him, and I love orchids.

Another Oh!--we should be arriving at a date for our housewarming event soon.

The Gap Inc. Players in: "Terror in the Abandoned Stock Room"

Pardon my lack of verbosity, but I just got home from work about five minutes ago. We had an overnight, so that we could "roll out" the new Gap Body gear. (They like calling it "flow," but I always used that word in reference to menses, so it bothers me.) What? Go to bed, silly fuck? No, no. I don't want to disrupt my circadian rhythm. I'll just pass out tonight around 7 and perhaps move my bedtime schedule up a few hours. That would be good, so that I can wake up before noon on a regular basis.

My weekend was fun-filled.

Well, I'm going to go paint--in addition to getting my hair cut today (I liked it better and better everytime the smelly mass of sweat and fatigue known as myself passed by a bank of mirrors last night/this morning), I dropped $150 at Home Depot for paint and other fun things. So, I'm going to go play with those now.

Wax Sentimental

Watching Will & Grace tonight made me long for days gone by.

Addiction #7

I don't really have much to post, since I've spent most of my time from Saturday evening on cooped up in this office. I've become chemically dependent upon Roller Coaster Tycoon 2. This sort of thing used to happen to me in junior high and perhaps freshman year. I would randomly start playing Sim City 2000 one day, and not be able to do anything but that for about 2-3 weeks. No homework, no social time, no nothing. Eventually, it'd pass, but that usually involved me doing the 'ol "cold turkey" method.

The only exciting things to write about include my trip to Printer's Row Book Fair with Theo (very fun, lots of people, lots of wonderful books; we bought some Vanity Fair cover prints from the 1920s for our Hall of Art), watching all of the Bentleys being loaded into the new dealership on Rush after class on Monday, starting yet ANOTHER book (I'm already reading two...no, three other books), and mending my relationship with Theo.

Summer Living

This summer will undoubtedly not be as great as last--a year ago today, I was taking my first steps in Europe. Today, I took my ritualistic steps to work, after watching HGTV all day. I will have to take pleasure in sprucing up my apartment and partaking in many of Chicago's neighborhood fests.

Work...where to begin. I have worked at the Broadway/Belmont Gap for more than three weeks, and still have not received a check because I haven't been entered into their computers. I'm almost offended by that--they care so little about their employees that they fail to pay them for their hard work or recognize them as true employees. One thing is certain--I must stay in school, and probably go to grad school and possibly get a doctorate, so that I'm not spending my life there.

Oh, I made the Dean's List. As can be expected, my parents are more excited about that than am I.

.

To the dismay of one instigator, Theo and I are, in fact, not broken up. We rehashed things last night, after lots of staring, and decided that the changes we wanted to implement in our relationship when Part II began hadn't been made, but that we (read: I) would try harder to make those changes happen. I think that when you move in woth someone, adjustments need to be made--sometimes painfully, sometimes not as pleasantly as one would like. I suppose I focused more on those changes than the changes that we were making to our love life. So, we're going to shine up the tracks and get the train moving again. I do love him, and want our romantic relationship and our relationship as roommates to be as wonderful as possible. Kyle and Sarah...I mean, Brian and Theo, are back on track, and the only measurements that meed to be made now are in regards to our walls (for paint), floors (for furniture), and love (which no ruler can ascertain).

?

I'm sort of confused. And I imagine you will be too after reading this. Theo and I have broken up, I think. We had a fight this afternoon, after I shooed him away from hopping on my computer while I tried, successfully, to fix our network. He said he wanted to break up. I thought it was just one of those "heat of the moment" things, but now I'm fairly certain we're simply roommates. I'm sorry this isn't more emotional or heartfelt or somber, but I'm not really certain...no, I suppose I'm certain...now he's staring at me and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say...I don't know what is going on.

Staring doesn't tell me much of anything.

She insisted.

I don't think I have much to write about. Everything I do has become so commonplace, so routine--even though to someone living in a third-world country, or Hampshire, would never tire of my schedule. I'm just taking everything for granted and being a spoiled brat.

I forgot how draining work is. Granted, I've never had to do an overnight or work at 7AM at my previous places of employment, but even if I didn't work odd hours, I'd still be tired contatantly. Yes, scholastics tire one too, but that's such a different form of fatigue. When school tires me, I feel full. But when work tires me, I feel empty. Since I spend all of my Happiness Dollars while on the clock, I have no more to spend on myself or Theo (much to his dismay).

Why am I even writing right now? I have nothing to say. I can no longer write. I've had a glass of wine. This is for Cyndi and Cyndi alone--so I don't get anymore angry IMs. Everyone else--forget you read anything! I will return with better material! I will not be Jerry Seinfeld!

Hair There Everywhere

I'm not cutting my hair short. I was really planning on doing it, turning my curly mass into something Ashton Kutcher-esque. But the fane--the fans love it. I have at least one person a day comment on how beautiful/lovely/awesome my hair is. Today, three people--three perfect (even moreso when complimenting me) strangers--casually said how much they loved my hair. The same Gap customer has come in three times now, since I began working two weeks ago, and said how much she enjoyed it. And really, I sometimes like my hair too. I always considered it my best and only good feature. So, popular concensus has struck the gavel--my hair is guilty of being fun and appealing.

Sorry, I needed to pick myself up. It's been a long day--worked from 7AM-3. It's really awkward seeing customers on the street, when I'm not wearing my cemented (more like demented) grin and blue tag. What do I do? I usually smile, casually, as if we'd met at a party sometime or something. Ha--Gap a party. I'm not hating working there as much as I used to hate it, schlepping the wares of a company I didn't really believe in. The all-gay cast I'm greeted with every day is fun, since they're much more flamboyant/amusing than myself. A manager asked me today if I'd give him permission to clone me. Psychologically, I only enjoy doing something if others think I'm doing a good job at it. So, I'm enjoying it so far.

Last night, I went to see L'Auberge Espagnole (Fr., "Spanish pudding") at Piper's Alley. Aside from the $8.75 ticket cost (can you BELIEVE IT?!?), I really enjoyed it. The film, "written" by the protagonist, chronicled his year of studying abroad in Barcelona and living in a beautiful apartment with 7 other students, all hailing from different European countries. Ok, so it was Real World Catalana, as one reviewer penned. But it was fun, the cinematography was inventive even compared to American cinema which, I'm afriad surpasses that of the French almost always (A French Matrix would not have been as popular; you go to French cinema for the plot), and I'm determined to study abroad at some point now. One of London's many universities has an outstanding journalism school. Theo, of course, became despondent when I told him about the idea.

Another night of hanging around the apartment and watching movies! Blah.

Singing and Assassinating

I hadn't seen my parents in weeks, I think. So, I was relieved when they drove down to Chicago to spend the day with me. We traipsed around the Loop, bought tickets to see "The Lion King" in early June (eh...), ate at the Italian Village (eh...), and saw "Assassins" at the Merle Reskin theatre, as performed by DePaul's highly-touted Theatre School. I was thoroughly unimpressed with their rendition of the little-known Sondheim show; the cast lacked talent and conviction, which just made the two-hour-long production drag (no intermission? yeesh.). To quote my mother: "I didn't not like it...I hated it." Personally, I love the unusual musical--Bob and I saw it together several years ago--and I'm hoping Loyola gives this show the justice it deserves when they perform it this fall.

After playing around on Metromix Friday night, in search of shows to see with my family, and standing in line to buy "Lion King" tickets Saturday afternoon, I became quite upset...no, angry, about the fact that I didn't see "tick, tick...BOOM!" this week. Bob said I'd have to give him head for him to take me to see it, and my parents weren't very excited about paying $30 a piece to see a musical they had no knowledge of. I'm just upset on several levels about this. Things/people/relationships change, I suppose.

Theo should be 1/4 moved in by the end of the day. That is good. I haven't seen nor spoken to many of my friends lately. That is bad.

Things that are sad.

(In order of least to greatest)
1. I've watched or taped the past several episodes of American Idol.
2. I tried to vote for Clay last night, but the line was forever busy.
3. I spent about an hour online, trying to figure out when auditions for the next season will be held.
4. I'm not going to class tonight, so I can watch the final episode.
5. In spite of my obsession, I don't even think these gentlemen are talented.

Sex and the City night tonight (after AI, of course) with Theo.

Are television shows italicized or in quotations?

Untitled

Aside from a lot of bickering with Theo (I just wasn't very nice at all), I didn't do much this past weekend. Most notably, my friend Tim invited Erin and me to accompany him to a film premiere downtown. He was involved/invited because of his membership in the CYSO, whose performance with one of the film's violinists was amazing. The film, Together, chronicles a young Chinese violinist's relationship with his father and his struggle to achieve success. I really enjoyed myself--a free CYSO concert featuring an acclaimed Chinese violinist on a $5 million Stradivarius, free food, free foreign film, a free ticket to see it again at the Esquire next week, and some time to catch up with a few good friends.

I had my first summer session class this evening. My Intro. to Microeconomics class is taught by a bumbling older man. Six hours a week with him, on a topic I have little interest with, will not be enjoyable.

Speak Gayish?

Last night, I had my first shift at Gap. Never before have I heard the Gayish language utilised to such an extreme--the staff at my store consists of gay males (in its entirety) and females. I'd never really thought much about it, because it's so obvious--gay men speak in their own dialect. There were moments last night when I thought I heard one man talking, but really it was someone else--they all speak the same. It's indescribable--somewhat feminine, but without the grace and timbre; a lisp (or sybilitic "s") is almost always present; words are presented with even emphasis and exaggeration; strangely enough, sometimes a slight Southern twang is evident, even if the speaker has never been south of the Union. I'm inevetably going to hate work, because I hate redundancy and I'm generally restless. But, I will refrain from writing about my job ALL THE TIME, because another journal I occasionally read focuses only on the author's work-related happenings. Which is boring and uninspired.

I just watched the "Dawson's Creek" series finale (I taped it). After not watching the show since Kevin Williamson turned the writing reigns over to someone else (I used to really dig him), it was certainly interesting. Since when did Dawson's father die? Since when did Jen have a baby? I did cry--because Williamson, who came back to write this final episode, wrote it so that people would cry (death of main character, everyone seeing each other for first time in years, Joey making decision, etc.). Joey's final decision really bothered me--I have never been a Pacey fan, and she even acknowledged that Dawson was her soulmate!--but I suppose I "get" the whole Dawson-being-alone-forever thing. Blah.

I never even see Theo anymore, it seems--he just comes to our apartment late at night, falls asleep, and then wakes up at 6AM or earlier. Quite upsetting.

Little India

After taking care of some administrative issues at Loyola, I decided to take a trip to Devon and Western. The shops and restaurants surrounding this intersection are Middle Eastern-oriented. My goal was to purchase a sari for my room (which will be Indian-themed, I think), but I simply couldn't do it. I felt uncomfortable enoug walking down the street, as I quickly noticed I was in the minority--a middle-cass European male. I felt like I had stepped into some forbidden world--even though no one said anything to me, nor did I receive any raised eyebrows or disheartening looks, I felt guilty for having an interest in their culture. I don't know. Needless to say, I didn't purchase a sari, but I did see some beautiful fabric, delicious-looking food, and a dead body being wheeled away by some funeral directors in an alley. I will hopefully get over this, and be able to go back soon.

And now, a brief American Idol commentary--because I'm watching that right now (wireless Internet what?)--Clay Aiken has a great voice for musical theatre, and I'm sure if he doesn't win, he'll get a great contract on Broadway or something. Rufus (? I don't know his name) is alright--he just sweats a lot, and that makes me uncomfortable as an audience member because I'm worried about his health. Kimberley, as I watch her right now, has a great voice--if she's trying to bring back Aretha-style soul. I don't know who will win, nor do I care. (That doesn't mean I'm not going to watch the final show next week, but...)

Must eat food!

We Have Achieved DSL

In a process that was more problematic and involved more squabbling than necessary, Theo and I set up the apartment's DSL today, and the superfluously-complex wireless network. I'm pretty pleased with it, myself.

I hadn't kissed my mother on the lips in years--but yesterday, it just sort of happened. Oedipus comments aside, I'd have to say that my mother and I share a unique relationship. She's become more and more of a friend over the past year or so. I still have some work to do with my father, but hey, one out of two ain't bad. M-day was uneventful--big dinner with grandparents, etc. She's found a new job, actually--she'll be working with a group of doctors doing the same thing she's done for the past 20+ years. The good thing about the privatisation of the situation is that she's going to be able to pick out all of her new instruments, choose with whom she works, and doesn't have to worry about all the things one worries abou when working for a huge corporation. Let's face it--doctors don't go out of business.

Speaking of jobs, I work at the Broadway/Belmont Gap this week, on Thursday and Friday. I'm sort of scared, but I think I'll be alright. There are just so many new policies...most of which I cannot discuss because of our confidentiality agreement. I will say this: "we" are trying to establish a trademark. I don't think it's working so far, but if any of you think you know what it is, comment.

I've now seen all of Christopher Guest's films, enjoying each one.

I'm on a big Nina Simone kick--after TMLMTBGB did a play commemmorating her, and then after watching some of the horrid Bridget Fonda film Point of No Return, in which Simone plays a key role, I've grown to love her voice and music. Her earlier work was great--so controvertial ("Mississippi Goddamn") and jazzier than her later work, with the doo-wop backup singers and all. She was a great musician. It's only a shame I've discovered her so late in the game.

I'm reading Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman right now--it's a book about the love of books, in comical essay format (my favourite). I really like her style, and I can see myself in a lot of the things she writes about. Next up--Salman Rushdie's Fury.

Oh, and Loyola has given me a jaw-droppingly massive financial aid package. My mother actually called me crying, she was so happy. So, that eases a lot of tension in our family. So, all is good, for now.

(Untitled)

My day was blessed with a call from a woman at the Gap corporation. After my interview on Friday went well, she offered me a position at the Broadway and Belmont store. She also offered me a raise in pay--almost $1.00 more than I was making at Spring Hill. So, I was excited, and hoping to make some more money by selling my textbooks back at Loyola. But, instead, I left mortified--I paid over $400 for these books (two Jewel bags full), and received a paltry $31.00 for them. So, it's been a mixed day, in retrospect.

Nothing much has happened in the past week. The Billy Joel/Elton John concert was sublime. I've always been a meek Elton John fan, and I never was really familiar with Joel's work. But there were times during the four hour-long spectacle that I thought, "I'm witnessing history here." I doubt I'll ever see a better concert again, and I know I'll never have seats that great--we were probably forty feet away from John's turquoise sequined suitcoat (at the All-State Arena, that's quite an accomplishment). I'm quite thankful that things worked out the way they did.

Zoe, Theo and I saw TMLMTBGB on Friday night. Zoe and Theo got along surprisingly well--I was impressed. I, being the klutz that I am, spilled nearly an entire pitcher of water everywhere when fetching a glass for the three of us. Fortunately, Jay, the Neo-Futurist I have an insatiable crush on, came over and told me he'd done the same thing the week prior. My nametag? "Water Boy." Ack--cannot go back for at least three months.

I was hoping to begin painting this week, but I don't want to buy the paint supplies we already have at my house. So, I'll probably wait until next week, and balance my painting and working. The apartment, by the way, is great. With over 1300 square feet, I sometimes get lost here.

I have to figure out what I'm getting my mother for Sunday, and my father for his birthday on the 15th. Well, my food is ready--chicken with baby artichokes. I'll probably post again when I have DSL (Friday).

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).

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

"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

Words Fail Me

SARAJSOLEM: Damned straight, dog.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.