Well, it's my day off (and a certain arse's birthday) so how am I spending it? Why, by making a lot of food and watching daytime television!
The food was croque monsieurs, a traditional French dish that is essentially a cross between a sandwich and French toast that is baked with cheese. Awesomeness was enjoyed by all.
As for the daytime tele, I just watched my first full episode of So You Think You Can Dance, an elimation episode at that and I will fully admit to all the world that by the end of it, I was openly weeping. I am reeeeeally not a reality show guy and a big part of that is the ego present on these shows, but these kids seemed so nice! First of all, no one on that show is conventionally beautiful. Would guy looks like the offspring of a tin soldier and a meerkat, ergo I would totally hit it. (In searching for that link, I went on the show's website and discovered that the competition is, in fact, already over. Meh. Fuck it; the tears are real.) Also, they just all seemed so overwhelmed to be there, like in the back of their minds they didn't really think they were deserving (musicalschoolsaywhat?). And then when the gorgeous little black girl and the ambiguously-sexualized white boy (Methodist) were sent packing, the tears! Oh the tears, how they came! And when the credits rolled and the funky music that signals the cast to start peacocking around the stage began, they instead rushed to the eliminated two and started crying too! And THEN when each of their dance partners got to them and they looked at each other and did the whole It-hurts-so-much-I-have-to-close-my-eyes hug...well, Vamos lost his shit.
That crew (can I say crew? NCAA ruling?) completely reminded me of my music school peeps in the first 2-3 years of our degree. Instead of being all backstabby and bitchy, the girls practically got on the same cycle. Instead of being all macho and standoffish the guys...well, we ate a lot of pie together. (I mean, it's not like we were out getting bro massages together *cough*Class of '10*cough*) Can you imagine if one of us was kicked off at the end of each semester? If at juries, instead of singing for marks, we were "singing for our lives!"? They would line us all up at the end of April and the vocal faculty would cut us down while our families sat in Eva Clare Hall with glitter signs.
Laura would so be the stuffy British one.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
What I've learned so far
From David I learned that falling in love is the most painful thing you can do.
From Kenton I learned how to cope when you have no control over someone else's shiat.
From Josh I learned not to make out in shrubbery.
From Reid I learned that silence is still an answer to a question even if it's the last one you want.
From Tyler I learned how to negotiate, and to think outside the box(-spring).
From Joseph I learned that you can't make someone ready.
From Sean the first I learned how to hurt someone.
From Andrew I learned that being brave doesn't always get you want no matter how much you think you deserve it.
From Jeff I learned that every song, every verse, every painting that tries to capture the essence of love is a pale imitation, and that when it's destroyed, part of you is gone for good.
From Jeremy I learned not to be surprised when someone goes from amorous to absent in a twelve hour period. Also, that guys are dicks.
From Sean the second I learned that, no, really, you can't make someone ready.
From Bruce I learned that honesty can have surprising consequences.
From Jacob I learned that once you get past the obligatory sexual investigation, gay friendships are possible.
From Michael I learned that if someone is interested they'll let you know and if you're not getting the feedback you want it's because you're not the one they want to give it to.
From Aaron I learned that no matter how cute they are, that feeling in your gut telling you that it would be a laughably bad idea is always right.
From Bo I learned that affection comes from the most unexpected places.
From Joe I learned that good sex exists. And it's awesome.
From Ryan I learned not to make people into what I want them to be in that moment, especially when they're not mine to make.
From Mitchel I learned that no matter how much I seem to have learned I know nothing.
Ok, so I know nothing. Fucking fantastic.
I saw The Reader last night. There was a quarel between the lovers and one asks the other, "What did I do to hurt you?"
And she cooly looks at him and says, "You don't have the power to hurt me. You don't matter enough to hurt me."
Is that not the most cutting thing you've ever heard? I mean, that's ultimately my biggest button (and probably a couple others' as well), not mattering enough to affect someone. It's sick how much we (read: I) need to matter. I can name - and have above, in part - dozens of failed lovers that I think about all the time. Even if it was just an insignificant passing romance I can still recall every nuance of the failure. (In addition, I can still recall our last summer.) Each of them mattered even if I wish they didn't, which is why the notion of being insignificant is more tragic than that of being unwanted. This is why I'm such a big fan of flat out rejection; so much better to be let down gently, or even roughly, so long as the message is clear. Of course, sometimes the message is clear but you don't want to hear it.
Apparently, some people do that...
From Kenton I learned how to cope when you have no control over someone else's shiat.
From Josh I learned not to make out in shrubbery.
From Reid I learned that silence is still an answer to a question even if it's the last one you want.
From Tyler I learned how to negotiate, and to think outside the box(-spring).
From Joseph I learned that you can't make someone ready.
From Sean the first I learned how to hurt someone.
From Andrew I learned that being brave doesn't always get you want no matter how much you think you deserve it.
From Jeff I learned that every song, every verse, every painting that tries to capture the essence of love is a pale imitation, and that when it's destroyed, part of you is gone for good.
From Jeremy I learned not to be surprised when someone goes from amorous to absent in a twelve hour period. Also, that guys are dicks.
From Sean the second I learned that, no, really, you can't make someone ready.
From Bruce I learned that honesty can have surprising consequences.
From Jacob I learned that once you get past the obligatory sexual investigation, gay friendships are possible.
From Michael I learned that if someone is interested they'll let you know and if you're not getting the feedback you want it's because you're not the one they want to give it to.
From Aaron I learned that no matter how cute they are, that feeling in your gut telling you that it would be a laughably bad idea is always right.
From Bo I learned that affection comes from the most unexpected places.
From Joe I learned that good sex exists. And it's awesome.
From Ryan I learned not to make people into what I want them to be in that moment, especially when they're not mine to make.
From Mitchel I learned that no matter how much I seem to have learned I know nothing.
Ok, so I know nothing. Fucking fantastic.
I saw The Reader last night. There was a quarel between the lovers and one asks the other, "What did I do to hurt you?"
And she cooly looks at him and says, "You don't have the power to hurt me. You don't matter enough to hurt me."
Is that not the most cutting thing you've ever heard? I mean, that's ultimately my biggest button (and probably a couple others' as well), not mattering enough to affect someone. It's sick how much we (read: I) need to matter. I can name - and have above, in part - dozens of failed lovers that I think about all the time. Even if it was just an insignificant passing romance I can still recall every nuance of the failure. (In addition, I can still recall our last summer.) Each of them mattered even if I wish they didn't, which is why the notion of being insignificant is more tragic than that of being unwanted. This is why I'm such a big fan of flat out rejection; so much better to be let down gently, or even roughly, so long as the message is clear. Of course, sometimes the message is clear but you don't want to hear it.
Apparently, some people do that...
Monday, January 12, 2009
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
It seems so simple, perhaps because it's so prevalent in the celluloid. Two actors on a screen with eyes locked, gazing lovingly, completely unaware that they are surrounded by some six billion others. That look is so intense, so private. Sometimes there would be the sweet, almost-corny-but-for-its-sincerity smile of infatuation or the stony intensity of passion so all-consuming that to break that gaze would be to die.
And yet, that's exactly what the boy did, this boy that sat across from him and the moment was done. It was an ill-fated moment that began with the best of intentions but devolved not long after its inception because of the boy's, and also his own, inability to hold the stare. It started as that blissful tension that comes before you kiss for the first time, if not the first time ever than after a substantial distance, sometimes all the more meaningful for the time elapsed. A hand - or even a toe - wanders closer, lightly touching, giving little hints that could be mad flirtation or nothing more than an innocent graze if, God forbid, the other person did not respond. Then, thankfully, fingers entwine and you find this most mundane body part inexplicably fascinating. Hands, for the most part, are not that different from one another; veins, joints, nails. But when you touch a new one for the first time...heaven.
Their hands lacing, knees began to slide, legs opening and then closing, wrapping around the other's waist like roots, holding them there, in place, facing one another. Eyes met, his searching his companion's for depth or understanding or any sign that this was organic and correct. And there it was, that movie star moment, as though they'd been frozen. Hairsprayed. Maximum hold. Then the boy cocked his eyebrow and he felt his own respond in kind. Damnit. The movie was done, the reel having caught fire and shriveled as this sign of innocent mockery was exchanged. Not mockery at each other (the rest of the night would prove this) but rather a sign that they were not a silver screen couple, that this intimacy was too much, perhaps just too soon, but in either case unsustainable. His companion, this boy, eyebrow still raised, pursed his lips like the star of a blaxploitation film and then looked away with a grin, and then finally foolishly leaned in for the kiss. It was lovely, always had been, but it was hardly Klimt. Hell, it was barely Sex & the City. Still, it felt good and as they walked to the bed, he was content. The Gables and Lombards were excellent fantasies, but he hadn't seen a true example thus far and was exhausted from looking. He was tired and this would do fine. His lips would burn the same the next morning, the smell of the boys hair still wafting off of his fingers well into the next afternoon.
And yet, that's exactly what the boy did, this boy that sat across from him and the moment was done. It was an ill-fated moment that began with the best of intentions but devolved not long after its inception because of the boy's, and also his own, inability to hold the stare. It started as that blissful tension that comes before you kiss for the first time, if not the first time ever than after a substantial distance, sometimes all the more meaningful for the time elapsed. A hand - or even a toe - wanders closer, lightly touching, giving little hints that could be mad flirtation or nothing more than an innocent graze if, God forbid, the other person did not respond. Then, thankfully, fingers entwine and you find this most mundane body part inexplicably fascinating. Hands, for the most part, are not that different from one another; veins, joints, nails. But when you touch a new one for the first time...heaven.
Their hands lacing, knees began to slide, legs opening and then closing, wrapping around the other's waist like roots, holding them there, in place, facing one another. Eyes met, his searching his companion's for depth or understanding or any sign that this was organic and correct. And there it was, that movie star moment, as though they'd been frozen. Hairsprayed. Maximum hold. Then the boy cocked his eyebrow and he felt his own respond in kind. Damnit. The movie was done, the reel having caught fire and shriveled as this sign of innocent mockery was exchanged. Not mockery at each other (the rest of the night would prove this) but rather a sign that they were not a silver screen couple, that this intimacy was too much, perhaps just too soon, but in either case unsustainable. His companion, this boy, eyebrow still raised, pursed his lips like the star of a blaxploitation film and then looked away with a grin, and then finally foolishly leaned in for the kiss. It was lovely, always had been, but it was hardly Klimt. Hell, it was barely Sex & the City. Still, it felt good and as they walked to the bed, he was content. The Gables and Lombards were excellent fantasies, but he hadn't seen a true example thus far and was exhausted from looking. He was tired and this would do fine. His lips would burn the same the next morning, the smell of the boys hair still wafting off of his fingers well into the next afternoon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)